


Rule of Two

by blueenvelopes935



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 206,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueenvelopes935/pseuds/blueenvelopes935
Summary: He is the last surviving Nightbrother.  A man groomed from childhood for greatness, but robbed of his rightful place in history.  Soon, that will change. He might not have the title Lord any longer, but he’s still a Sith through and through.  Darth Maul will get his revenge and more.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is my Covid-19 stress fic. My I-hate-home-schooling, I'm-tired-of-quarantining, I-need-a-mental-break-from-the-news, and the-economy-is-melting-down fic. This is set after the events of the Solo movie and before the events of Maul's involvement in the Rebels cartoon series. I kinda, sorta know where this is heading. But who knows? I've thought that about a lot of fics that evolve as I write. So, I'm just going to see where this goes. 
> 
> Darth Maul was such a forgettable character in the movies. Great character design, awesome fighting, tremendous lightsaber, but not much else. Still, in the SW lore that has developed since Episode One, he has become an enduring character with an arc unlike anyone else's. This guy just sticks around, reinventing himself and yet remaining the same dude. He's got all the pathos of the archetypal miserable Sith Lord who brings about his own pain. But unlike Vader who learns his lesson finally, Maul keeps trying to regain his past glory. He's doubling down on everything that brought him to this point. And . . . I love it. Plus, he's weirdly, alien-exotically handsome. Sort of the SW version of the French concept of jolie laide. The soft, tenor voice, the animalistic grunting, snarling speech, the crown of devil horns (!!), and the obsessive personality. I just couldn't resist an attempt at writing him. And, well, if it doesn't work out, I can always delete, right?

He is surrounded by fear and dead men.

It feels good.

He snarls, “Apology accepted,” as the last of his victims utters a final heaving gasp and succumbs. He doesn’t bother to suppress the small smile of satisfaction that tugs at his lips. Today’s kills fulfilled a need. Too much pent-up Darkness has been surging in him of late. It had demanded release.

There are two schools of thought on how to handle situations like this one. You can either kill everyone in a decision-making capacity or you can kill only the truly responsible parties. The Pikes and the Hutts tend to choose the former strategy, while he selects the latter. It’s better for morale, which is better for business. It’s also the more elegant solution. He might find himself occupied in this line of work currently, but he’s no thug. Had circumstances been different, he would be choking imbecile officers on the bridge of an Imperial star destroyer. Not killing the proprietors of a low rent whorehouse and spice den who cheated him out of his cut.

Has he made his point? From the expressions on the faces of the two men he selected to survive, he has. Good. Now, it’s time to reorganize the assets at this location. It was underperforming even without the cheating. Going forward, this place will strictly be a spice den. Time to redeploy the girls elsewhere where he can charge a premium and get more return on his investment.

“Take the five best looking ones and send them to Ord Mantell. Move the rest to Dantooine.”

“Yes, Boss.” An assistant scurries away to do his bidding.

Next, he orders, “Download a copy of the books to take with us.” He wants to analyze the accounts himself to see why the margins here are slim. Is it just mismanagement? Perhaps lack of demand? Maybe too much expense for bribes paid to local officials to look the other way? There is always a root cause to discover. He might run an enterprise of vice, but he runs it well. He’s just as ruthless as his competition, but he’s far smarter. It’s why Crimson Dawn is leaner, more nimble, and more profitable than its better known, more established rivals.

“What should we do with the bodies?” someone ventures.

“Throw them in the street before we leave,” he answers.

In his current line of work, he gets to vent his bloodlust at will. No one cares if criminals kill criminals. Like the Republic before it, the Empire looks the other way. That means he is untouchable so long as his violence does not impact ordinary civilians. It’s a marked change from his prior life. Being the Apprentice back in his day was more planning and plotting than it ever was actual killing. He and his Master couldn’t do their Dark deeds in the open or risk compromising the Grand Plan. So it was mostly a lot of micro aggressions, political intrigues, assassinations, and corruption.

Tyrannus got the good gig during the war. That Jedi turncoat reaped the benefits of machinations long ago concocted and finally put into motion. He got to duel countless Jedi and kill them overtly. Then Vader got the best ever assignment to finish off Order 66 with the Purge. And all while, he watches from the sidelines. Well, not quite. For he hunts Jedi too these days, just for a very different purpose.

The first assistant is back now and he’s dragging a green skinned Twi’lek girl under his arm. “Take a look at this product, Boss. Here’s why they weren’t making much.” The assistant forcibly throws the girl to her knees on the ground with contempt.

He glances down briefly at the cowering woman. She’s got her chin ducked low and her head averted almost in profile as her long brain tentacles puddle on the floor. She’s decent looking enough. In her loose belted tunic and pants, she’s hardly dressed for allure. But it’s the morning and she’s off duty.

“What’s the issue?”

“Take another look.” The assistant reaches to grab one of the young woman’s tentacles and twists. She yelps in pain and jerks away. The movement reveals what she’s hiding. One cheek is a mess of scars. It’s clearly an old injury long healed. It ruins her otherwise pretty face. Just looking at her makes a man want to wince.

“Come on, who pays to sleep with this?” his assistant complains. “She’s uglier than the customers’ wives back home.”

“I’m not one of the girls,” the Twi’lek quickly responds as she raises a self-conscious hand to her face.

“Boss—“ the assistant starts to speak again, but he waves the loudmouthed man silent as he addresses the girl himself. 

“What do you do here?”

“I’m a domestic,” she answers through trembling lips. “Cooking, c-cleaning, that sort of thing . . . ”

It’s menial, low skill work that droids do in the Core Worlds. But here in the Rim where people recall with hatred the Separatist droid army, most prefer to avoid mechanized help for all but the most unsavory and dangerous tasks. And since labor is cheap and plentiful, credits are not an impediment to that bias.

“We’re shutting this place down for prostitution,” he informs her. “This operation will be strictly spice from now on. There is no need for your services here any longer.”

“Send her to Dantooine?” the assistant who dragged her in suggests.

His eyes flit over the young woman again and linger a moment on her damaged face. She looks so bleak as she awaits his answer. Her expression uncomfortably reminds him of his own bleak times on Lotho Minor. And why did he think of that? He makes a face. “Put her onboard,” he decrees just to be done with the issue. “We’ll take her back with us.” Then, he returns his attention to the two locals he let live. The green girl with the scarred face is immediately forgotten as he gets back to business.

An hour later, he’s done. He pulls back up his hood and withdraws from this wretched denizen of sin he owns. He hates to spend too much time in these places. They depress him.

He heads back to his cruiser to move on to his next stop. It’s a lavish ride. Normally, he is a man of simple tastes, but he likes a good spacecraft. Plus, the crime boss role requires a certain lifestyle. It’s not something he takes particular pleasure in, but he plays the game and he owns the requisite trappings. He’s got the big ship and the luxury villa compound and the intimidating entourage of conspicuously armed thugs. But, all things considered, those indulgences are fairly modest compared to his competitors. He doesn’t keep a palace full of dancing girls, rancors, and bounty hunters. He likes his privacy too much.

Even at the ultra-fast lightspeed his cruiser reaches, it’s still a three-hour flight to his next stop. He’s paying a surprise visit to one of his most successful casino cantinas. Time for some unscheduled oversight to remind the proprietors who they’re working for. He’ll take a snapshot of the books there as well for an impromptu audit. Then it's back home. 

It’s all in a day’s work. He trained years to run the galaxy. But for now, he has to settle for running his expanding criminal enterprise. The subject matter is unsavory, of course, and beneath him. But the credits are good and the violence has its benefits. From time to time, he has pondered exiting crime to run a legitimate business. But nothing truly interests him other than being the Apprentice. So he bides his time at the head of Crimson Dawn as he plots his comeback.

And really, the skill sets are remarkably similar, he has learned. Managing is managing. Whether it’s running a government, fighting a war, or captaining an intersystem crime syndicate, you must plot strategy, respond to crises, assess risks, and make decisions. He kept himself a shadowy figure at the beginning, hiding behind a figurehead gangster. That was his Sith penchant for secrecy showing. And, well, maybe a little embarrassment too for how far down he has come in his life. But with Dryden Vos’ recent death, he has decided to come out publicly. 

He’s hoping to use the notoriety to his advantage. For no matter his job title, he is a Sith through and through. Meaning he lures even as he hunts. And so, every time he lights his sabers before witnesses, it’s a silent taunt and a threat to the man he hates the most. _I’m coming for you, Kenobi._ He also considers it a knowing wink in the direction of Coruscant. _Are you getting this, Father? Do you know what your prodigal son is up to?_

It’s been years since he tried to impress his cruel father-Master on Mandalore to get his old job back. It was as daring as it was foolish to attempt to oppose both the Separatists and the Republic simultaneously. But it got him noticed, like he hoped. Still, in the end he was spurned and his brother killed. But yet . . . the cold, unforgiving Darth Sidious had let him live.

It was unexpected at the time. Perplexing even. But now, he thinks he knows why he was spared. It’s because his Master has foreseen that he will one day take his revenge on Kenobi and that will solve a problem for Lord Sidious since Vader is apparently not up to the task of killing the Jedi General. That’s his opportunity. Once he kills Kenobi, he will kill Vader and reclaim his rightful place at his father’s side. Once more, he will be the crown prince of Darkness, the righthand man to the Sith Emperor himself, groomed one day to inherit it all.

For what has Vader got that he hasn’t got? Sure, he’s damaged, but he’s not nearly as bad off as Vader is. So why did he get cast off while Vader was coddled back to health and handed an Empire to rule? It’s not fair, but more importantly, it’s a poor strategic choice. Why have a guy wheezing around who’s more machine than man, when you can trade up to an experienced Sith who has fully acclimated to merely two medical prosthetics? Anyone can see that he’s the far better choice for Apprentice.

The only explanation is that his father-Master is keeping him in reserve. Likely watching over him at a distance. He merely pretends to be uncaring. It is punishment, not true rejection. Just the tough love of a disapproving father to his son who has disappointed him deeply. But one day, Lord Sidious will welcome him back. He’s just using Vader for the time being. Anyone can see that.

His path back to power begins with killing Kenobi, and that requires finding Kenobi. Unfortunately, the man has proven to be an elusive quarry. It’s why he’s meeting via hologram on the ride home with one of the minor Hutts. This Jabba fellow has a lead on a Jedi fugitive who’s been spotted on his backwater world. The Jedi vaguely fits the description of Kenobi, but the details are sketchy. No doubt more specific information will be forthcoming for the right price or a professional favor.

In the end, the conversation with the Hutt proves more intriguing than satisfying. This particular Hutt is a drooling goon who asks too many questions and wants too many credits. It prompts him to pull his weapon and light it. He has no problem with this Jabba or any other competitor knowing he has the Force and a lightsaber. And if word gets around to Darth Vader and he comes investigating? Well, good. Bring it on. He could use the practice.

He’s savoring the thought when the door to his office on his cruiser slides open. It’s the green Twi’lek woman bringing his dinner. Someone has already put her to work apparently. She walks in without the courtesy of a knock and she catches him extinguishing his double bladed saberstaff.

“OH!” she gasps. The surprise causes her to lose her grip on the tray she’s carrying. It would clatter to the floor to make a mess except his Force-attuned reflexes save his dinner.

Now, the girl is especially spooked. She stands there, wide eyed and open mouthed, as she stares at the tray hovering before her. Ironically, she seems more intimidated by the levitating dinner than by his flash of lightsabers. It’s sort of irksome.

He knew she was coming, of course. The Force betrayed her presence. Such a timid, deferential creature. She is pathetic in her deformity.

“Go on. Take it,” he orders impatiently.

Gingerly, she complies.

“Bring it here.”

“Yes, Sir,” she replies automatically. But as she draws near, he can see that she is trembling. 

“Put it down,” he instructs lest she drop it again. Is she always this skittish? If so, he won’t be keeping her at the villa as a servant.

She places the tray on the corner of his desk and rapidly backs away. She’s afraid. The Force broadcasts her fear loud and clear. It’s like a beacon to his mind. He’s used to that reaction. He likes it. It gives him the advantage in every situation.

The Twi’lek woman now verbalizes her emotion. “I w-won’t tell,” she whispers. Then, she looks around to make sure they are still alone. “I w-won’t tell, I p-promise.”

“Tell what?”

“T-that you're Jedi,” she hisses furtively as she wrings her hands. “I promise. I m-mean it.”

Yes, he can feel her sincerity. This little mouse of a woman turns out to have some mettle for he can feel her conviction. Still, she is terrified to know this secret she believes she has stumbled upon.

He’s amused by her mistake. She’s not the first to make it. “I’m not Jedi.” The very thought is perverse.

“But the laser sword—“

“I’m not Jedi.”

“But the Force—that was the Force, right? It looked like magic.”

“Yes.” Dark magic.

Her face is solemn now as again she promises, “I w-won’t turn you in. You can trust me, I’ve been Crimson Dawn for over t-ten years now,” she alludes to her loyalty as she flashes her insignia wrist tattoo. “Sir, I’m not a snitch.” 

He shrugs and offers, “Tell anyone you like. I’m not Jedi.”

She doesn’t believe him. “They’ll k-kill you like all the rest. They’ll send Darth Vader after you.”

“One can only hope.” He’s thoroughly enjoying her confusion and dismay. It’s so innocent. So ignorant. “Vader and I are overdue to meet,” he purrs.

“He’ll arrest you,” she stammers as she backs towards the open door as if to flee. “And then, he’ll arrest all of the rest of us for harboring you.”

“Not if I kill him first.”

She nods with immediate enthusiasm. “You’d better do that, Sir. For all our sakes.”

It’s a pragmatic answer. This woman understands how the pecking order of power works. Her fate is dependent on his goodwill and his continued survival. So, with a smirk of Dark noblesse oblige, he assures her, “I have cheated death before. I will evade it again.” That’s not a boast, it’s the truth.

“Good,” she mutters and then flushes as she realizes she spoke that thought aloud.

He cocks his head and considers her. He watches as she shifts her weight nervously from foot to foot. She’s so fearful and uncertain beneath his scrutiny. So lowly and utterly forgettable save for her scarred face that is strangely compelling. One side is beauty, the other side is pain. 

“What is your name?” he asks, surprising himself with the question.

“Rhea. Rhea Cardulla.”

It’s a typical Twi’lek name. Their women are all Heras, Hestias, Demeters, Theias, and the like. One and all, they are named for the storybook goddesses their species’ famed beauty suggests. “You are from Ryloth?”

“Yes. Originally.”

“Refugee?”

“Yes.”

That story is typical as well. His eyes land on her ruined cheek. “That mark is from the war?”

She looks down. “Yes.”

He grunts. “The war cost me a lot as well.” He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t talk about Savage to anyone, least of all to some new servant.

Like the rest of his personal past, it remains unspoken. Very rarely is it even alluded to. And truthfully, that’s less his Sith penchant for secrecy than it is his grief and guilt. He’s killed a lot of people and he will likely kill many more. But that does not mean he is indifferent to his personal losses. It’s been a long, hard fall as through the years he lost first his position and his health, for a while his sanity, and then his homeworld and his family. Two things keep him going these days—his lust for revenge and his determination to claw his way back to the top. His youthful years as the Apprentice were the only good times he has ever known.

He dismisses the woman now. “That will be all.” Then, he turns back to his screens and grabs his dinner. As he eats, he mulls over whether he should take a trip to Tatooine himself or send a scout. The Hutt’s information is not much of a lead, but he has a hunch it’s worth checking out.


	2. chapter 2

_It will be fine. I will get through this—whatever this is--and it will be fine_. _Everything has been fine so far._

Rhea keeps up her ongoing silent personal pep talk as the big ship she’s on lurches to signal it has exited hyperspace. This is only the third time she’s ever been in space and she can’t even remember the initial trip. Rhea had opened her eyes in the Republic medical station where she and other seriously injured civilians were medivac-ed. Strange faces hovering over her announced that she was no longer on Ryloth. Then, they had described her injuries and informed her that her sister was dead. That life-changing moment had been the beginning of a chain of events that has led her to here. But if Rhea can handle that, she can handle this. She has to. There is no other choice.

_It will be fine. I will get through this and it will be fine_. _Everything will be fine._

“We’re here,” the man sitting across from Rhea in the cruiser’s lounge area interrupts her anxiety attack. “Home, sweet home.” He stands to stretch and gather his things. This man is one of the big boss’ lieutenants. The rest are scattered around the ship. Luckily, this guy isn’t the one who dragged Rhea out and threw her at Maul’s feet. If anything, this man has been sort of friendly.

It’s why Rhea feels safe to ask, “What is this place?“ as she looks out the window at the looming red planet the cruiser approaches.

“It’s called Dathomir,” the man answers. “It’s the Rancor planet. It’s not red. That’s just a reflection from its main star. Don’t let it fool you.”

Yes, she sees. As the starship rapidly descends into the atmosphere, the planet is revealed to be lush and green. The ship continually lowers and Rhea begins to make out thick forests and pretty mountains.

She doesn't see any settlements. “Does anyone live here?”

“Not anymore. There was civilization until the Separatists came.”

“Oh.” As the ship continues to descend, Rhea begins to perceive his meaning. “It looks like a war zone,” she breathes out in dismay as the cruiser progresses to rapidly skim the planet’s battle-scarred surface. Up close, this world is not as uniformly green as it appears from above. There are twisted hulks from long ago downed spacecraft and droid battle wreckage strewn for miles across the countryside. It’s like someone scattered a massive junkyard across the verdant landscape. Here and there, she spies deep craters that hint at long ago massive explosions. It all bears testament to prolonged, devastating violence. When the war came to Dathomir, the fighting was clearly vicious. 

It’s unsettlingly familiar. Seeing the rusting, overgrown evidence brings back uncomfortable memories that Rhea quickly thrusts from her mind.

Dathomir has been like this for at least a decade, she realizes. “No one rebuilt afterwards?”

“They couldn’t. They were dead.” The man supplies more blunt details as he stows his datapad and comlink into his pack. “The droids slaughtered everyone. The human settlements were razed. All the indigenous peoples are gone too supposedly. All except Maul.”

“This is his home?“

“What’s left of it.” The man shrugs. “It’s a good place to hide. No one comes here now. No one wants to. It makes the security easy. If you’re not invited, then we know you’re an intruder.”

“It must have been so pretty once,” Rhea observes softly.

“More like scary, if you ask me. They say the locals here were a coven of witches.”

“Witches?” she echoes weakly.

The man leans forward to reveal in a lurid stage whisper, “Like Jedi, but without the swords. They did black magic.”

“Oh.” Rhea swallows hard. This is getting more bizarre and uncomfortable by the moment. But there’s nothing she can do about. Like so much in her still-young life, it is beyond her control. Others make decisions and she must ride out the consequences. She long ago lost the ability to make all but the most mundane determinations for herself.

The man now gives her an insider’s knowing look. “They say Maul’s mother was a witch.”

Rhea nods. That would explain how he has the Force but claims he’s not a Jedi.

She turns back to the window. “So he built his base on his abandoned, war torn homeworld . . . ”

“Yep. Like I said—it’s home, sweet home.” The man flashes a wry smile at her and beckons, “I guess it’s your home now too. Come on. Let’s go.”

Rhea follows him and the others off the cruiser onto a neatly landscaped landing platform. From there, she gets her first real glimpse of the Crimson Dawn inner sanctum. There are several winding stone walkways that lead away from the landing platform in different directions. Later, Rhea will learn that one leads to the on-site barracks, one leads to the main villa, and one leads to an assortment of service structures. But for now, she merely blinks as she takes in the picturesque sprawling compound. It looks like it belongs on Naboo or some other fancy world. Certainly not on a mostly uninhabited Rim planet. The headquarters of her gang looks more like an ultra-exclusive luxury resort than it does a crime kingpin’s hideout. Rhea is impressed. 

And yet, the compound is clearly one small swath of civilization that has been reclaimed amid the lingering ruins of war. For immediately beyond the wood rail fence that rings the perimeter of the landing platform, Rhea can easily make out battle detritus in a neighboring field. It’s twilight here on Dathomir as they arrive, but many bits of metal are still easily identifiable in the fading light. That looks like a mangled droideka, she thinks, and over there is the twisted remains of a spider droid. In fact, as she looks around, it appears that the entire settlement is surrounded by an old battlefield.

Rhea wanders apart a bit for a closer look as the others huddle to listen to their leader’s instructions. She doesn’t really want to see more, but she is drawn in nonetheless. The sight is just so appalling up close. Even more so now that she understands a little of the context. For the leader of Crimson Dawn lives here amid the remains of the genocide of his people. It sends a shiver down her spine.

Lost in thought, Rhea stands there staring. She feels bitter angst rise within her like always when she is reminded of the war. Rhea has a profound sense of sadness for her own personal losses. But it feels overwhelming when she is reminded of the magnitude of the galaxy-wide conflict that raged for years. It is illustrated very graphically before her eyes now on Dathomir. So many lives lost . . . so many futures ruined . . . so much needless destruction. Rhea lost everything in the war, but she still has her life . . . unlike the doomed inhabitants of Dathomir.

She closes her eyes to shut it out, if only just for a moment. You can’t run from the realities of life, Rhea knows all too well, but you can avoid dwelling on them. She touches her scarred face now reflexively, telling herself that she’s one of the lucky ones. She’s found that a sense of gratitude helps to put things in perspective. It enables her to accept the life she has now.

When she turns around, the others are gone. It’s just him left. Maul. He’s watching her in silence with his gauntleted arms crossed and his chin lowered.

Oh, dear. She stammers, “I’m sorry, Sir. I . . . uh . . . got distracted.”

His strange bloodshot yellow eyes follow her glance to the still field of ghostly battle wreckage. “Look familiar?” he rasps.

“Yes.” Regrettably so. She feels compelled to explain her gawking. It sets her to babbling. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t expect it . . . I’m surprised you didn’t remove it. It’s over now. It’s been over for years.”

“It will never be over,” Maul corrects her sharply. The man’s voice is a menacing snarl mixed with a hiss. He shoots her a look. “That’s why I keep it.”

“But the Separatists are gone.”

“No, they’re not.” 

He doesn’t explain that nonsensical answer. He just walks forward to join her in looking out at the field. He’s even more intimidating hovering at her shoulder making her feel small. Plus, he’s got that Jedi weapon Rhea saw earlier mounted diagonally across the wide sash that encircles his waist. Robed completely in black with the hood pulled up, he looks like he could easily belong in the Old Republic religious cult despite his denials.

“I am very sorry for what happened to your world,” she speaks aloud an awkward, but sincere condolence.

He does not acknowledge it. Instead, he speaks in slow, unfolding words, almost like a poem. “They ravaged systems, they slaughtered worlds, they seized control under false pretenses . . . and they called it construction of an Empire.” He grunts in disdain. “They made a wasteland and called it peace. And people like you believed it. People like you welcomed it.”

Yes, she did. It was a great relief when it all ended and Senator Palpatine took charge of things singlehandedly. “It’s over now—“

“No, it’s not. It will never be over.” Her gang’s fearsome leader is especially terrifying now as he quietly proclaims, “Peace is a lie,” like he’s revealing an important secret.

Rhea has nothing to say to that sentiment. She’s just glad the war is over. The Empire has its share of problems, but it is vastly preferable to war. Anything is. But she’s not about to contradict this man’s opinion.

He seems to expect an answer so she dutifully mutters, “Yes, Sir.”

“Come,” Maul orders as he takes off towards the main house. 

It’s only as she hurries to follow that she realizes the man’s legs are robotic. She had been too scared during their prior two meetings to see much beyond his strange eyes and distinctive alien face. But now as Rhea attempts to match her strides to his, she realizes that those aren’t boots beneath his black robes like she had assumed.

It’s her first inkling that this enigmatic, very private man has as much in common with the oppressors here on Dathomir as he does the victims.

A dignified human woman in a handsome dark grey dress awaits them just inside the main structure. “Welcome home, Sir,” she greets Maul like he’s a returning prince. Her eyes dart to Rhea. “This is the new girl from your message?”

“Find her something useful to do.”

“Yes, Sir. May I fix you something, Sir?”

“No. That will be all.”

That’s the full extent of the conversation. Rhea is delegated and Maul walks away. Inside the villa, his droid legs make a _tap tap_ noise on the stone floors. It’s a very distinctive indicator of his presence. Rhea and the older woman wait in silence as it slowly recedes and his steps are out of earshot.

“It’s not like him to bring home strays,” the woman harrumphs as she looks Rhea up and down. She introduces herself as the housekeeper Mrs. Nettles and beckons Rhea to follow. “Well, come on. Let’s get you settled.” She bustles Rhea through many wide and gracious rooms into the utilitarian service areas at the back of the villa. The housekeeper sits Rhea down in the kitchen with a steaming hot cup of tea and asks, “Had your dinner yet?”

“I had something on the ship.”

“Well, here. Take one.” The woman thrusts over a plate of cookies. “You’re skinny for a Twi’lek.” 

Rhea selects one. “Thank you.”

The housekeeper grabs a cookie for herself and sits opposite Rhea. “Well, out with it. What’s your name and what’s your story? Tell me how you got here and how you got that scar. It’s a doozy.”

Rhea takes a fortifying sip of tea and proceeds to tell a truncated version of her tale. She’s a war refugee from Ryloth who joined Crimson Dawn by happenstance. It was her best chance to recreate a family support structure for an orphan teen girl on her own. Given her lack of looks, she became a domestic servant for the local gang, not a working girl like the other female recruits. And that’s how she ended up here.

“There’s plenty to cook and clean for here,” the gruff housekeeper assures her. Mrs. Nettles, together with a cook and two maids, comprise the staff for the compound. They maintain the estate and attend to domestic matters for Maul, for his many lieutenants who come and go from the compound, as well as for the small onsite private army and the gang’s frequent guests. All in all, the housekeeper seems pleased to have another set of hands. “I’m not getting any younger,” she complains, “and my bum knee has been acting up of late.”

Mrs. Nettles shows Rhea to a small room to call her own. Then, she hands over one of her own dark grey dresses, promising to get Rhea several new ones of her own that will be better fitting. That will be a bit big, the housekeeper predicts, but it will do for now. “The boss likes the staff to wear uniforms. We have an image to uphold,” she tells Rhea with true pride. 

“Yes, of course,” Rhea instantly agrees.

“None of the men here will bother you,” the housekeeper assures her. “But,” she wags a warning finger, “don’t let me catch you hanging out around the barracks. You’re not here to socialize, you’re here to work. So, don’t cause trouble with the men. No fraternizing,” she instructs firmly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Rhea again acknowledges. The housekeeper’s instructions come out sternly, but a bit motherly as well. Suddenly, Rhea’s feeling a lot better about her change of circumstance.

Her first impression is correct. Life at the compound turns out to be a big improvement compared to Rhea’s prior situation. For starters, there are no drunk, high customers hanging around making disgusting messes to clean up. The compound might be the epicenter of the gang’s criminal activity, but it is more akin to an office environment than to a pleasure palace. Men come and go to and from the outpost to manage the ‘business,’ as it is euphemistically called. The business gets conducted behind closed doors in mostly quiet tones, as far as Rhea can tell. There are no loud outbursts of drunken laughter or angry, violent tirades like she’s used to. It’s all very gentlemanly and respectful. This is where the decisions are made, Rhea comes to realize. The dirty work is done elsewhere.

Her colleagues are reasonably welcoming. Mrs. Nettles can be a stickler about certain things, but she is easy to work for. Once Rhea understands her expectations, she meets them. The cook is a gossip and she likes to laugh. The other housemaid turns out to be a pleasant middle-aged woman named Marisol who’s married to one of Maul’s lieutenants. He’s been with the boss since his Death Watch days on Mandalore, the woman brags. Rhea has no idea what that means, but she nods like she understands.

Most days at Dathomir are a quiet, predicable routine. There are three meals to be prepared and served daily plus a rotating list of household tasks and an ever-present pile of laundry. But the other staff members do their part, so the workload is manageable. Mrs. Nettles and the cook handle the supply provisions that come from off-world, and there is a groundskeeper who functions as a handyman and gardener. That leaves Rhea and Marisol to handle the estate interior.

Maul’s men barely notice Rhea--as promised, they do not bother her. In fact, they are unfailingly respectful, which is far better than she’s used to. Maul himself does not acknowledge Rhea’s presence, although she’s usually the one bringing his dinner to his quarters where he habitually eats alone. Overall, there is a degree of formality and hierarchy to daily life at the compound that was lacking at her prior job. She likes that. Here, no one swears and spits. If there is conflict, she hasn’t seen it. The prevailing decorum at the compound probably forbids it.

From time to time, Crimson Dawn receives visitors from rival gangs. Those occasions break up the monotony and provide a sense of excitement. They also provide great people watching, for the visitors never come alone. A crime boss always brings a trail of heavily armed underlings, Rhea soon learns. For these visits, the quiet daily routine at the compound is disrupted and everyone puts on a show. 

First, Mrs. Nettles welcomes the visitors with majestic formality. Then, the visiting entourage is shown into one of the many luxurious living areas to cool their heels while the head man is shown to Maul’s formal office. The boss’ fancy office is used exclusively for these visits, Rhea discovers. Maul does all his actual work in the small, cluttered workspace adjacent to his private rooms. But meetings with rivals are highly choreographed interactions. This is criminal diplomacy, the housekeeper observes archly to Rhea. And truthfully, it does feel a bit like Rhea imagines a meeting between two enemy heads of state.

There is a pecking order at this level of organized crime. The degree of respect shown upon your arrival reflects your standing. That means a visiting emissary from the Pikes, with whom Crimson Dawn maintains a fragile alliance, merits two reception rooms of showy hospitality for their hangers on in attendance. By contrast, a member of one of the has-been Coruscant Underworld crime families gets shown into the small parlor to cool his heels for an hour before Maul will deign to meet with him. Sometimes the boss’ top lieutenants spend time entertaining their counterparts before their leaders actually meet. No doubt each side is prodding the other informally for information. And sometimes, there is no prelude of small talk and mutual backslapping. For those visits, the meeting begins straightaway when the guests are shown to Maul upon arrival.

It’s a delicate dance of posturing and negotiation, a deliberate mix of respect and disrespect, all usually combined with a conspicuous display of wealth and an understated show of force. For these occasions, the cook goes all out and the wine is often free flows. And while everyone in attendance has a weapon, there is a veneer of gentility to it all that belies the subtext of threat. These men pretend to disdain violence, Rhea realizes, even though it is their favorite tactic. It’s only a matter of time before someone dies, she knows. Death happens frequently enough at the compound that Mrs. Nettles keeps a special cabinet of carpet cleaners and fabric solvents that she swears by for getting out bloodstains.

As she quickly settles in, Rhea observes it all. She covertly watches Maul’s men as she goes about her daily cleaning. She sees their tablets with complex spreadsheets that model supply and demand curves for product like this is any other business. Except the product in this case is either women, drugs, gambling, or contraband hyperfuel. She catches bits and pieces of presentations analyzing underutilized assets and excess capacity. She overhears their debates about market share and strategic alliances. Day in, day out, she dusts and vacuums next to discussions about the pros and cons of cheating on agreed cartel arrangements. The conclusion she draws is that Crimson Dawn is run with all the precision of a large corporation. It makes her wonder about the talent of its leadership. For surely, these men could be very successful in a legitimate line of work. 

So why choose this? Well, maybe those questions aren’t worth asking, Rhea thinks as she glances down at the insignia tattoo on her wrist. Everyone at the compound has one. Maul’s lieutenants are as trapped as she is, for there is no exit strategy from Crimson Dawn. That’s the cost-benefit tradeoff of a gang. They promise to protect you and take care of you. They’re supposed to have your back like the family you wish you had but for whatever reason don't. But like family, the gang is a forever commitment. You don’t get to walk away once you no longer need them. For once you join, you’re in for life. 

But so far, so good. At the compound, Rhea is one part hostess, one part maid, and one part cook. One morning, she finds herself unobtrusively refilling the caf carafe on the credenza during a morning meeting with an arms dealer. Later that day, she brings in lunch to a group of visiting tech types who are pitching a new inventory accounting system. That evening, she assists in the kitchen helping cook to make the side dishes.

And Maul? Well, Crimson Dawn’s boss haunts his compound as a seldom seen, but somehow still constant presence. As far as Rhea can tell, he spends most of his time holed up in his personal office in his private wing of the villa. It’s off-limits to everyone except for those Maul summons and for whoever is delivering his meals for the day. Most often, that task falls to Rhea. That means she probably sees him in-person more than anyone at the compound. It’s always in passing, though. Still, that minute or two makes an impression.

Maul takes some getting used to, honestly. That face . . . the black tattoos on red skin, the yellow bloodshot eyes, the crown of horns, the hairless head and cheek. It’s very intimidating. It is a full month before Rhea gets used to his fearsome Zabrak visage enough to comprehend his actual expressions. And that’s when she realizes how handsome he is, most especially in profile.

Maul is not noticeably tall for a humanoid, nor is he particularly broad. But somehow, his physical presence dominates a room nonetheless. It’s the same with his speech. His voice is not deep. Rather, it’s high and raspy. Oftentimes, it’s as if he speaks in a stage whisper. His cadence is either a slow, lazy drawl when he’s observing something, usually with withering sarcasm. Or it comes out a fast growl, most often a threat accompanied by a flash of bright white teeth. There’s never anything different. But truthfully, the man’s not much of a talker. Maul speaks sparingly and to good effect. Because if he deigns to comment on something, then it caught his attention and that makes the matter significant.

Rhea’s days are full and often they are long. And just when she thinks she has it all down, something new and unexpected happens. The compound might run like a well-oiled machine some days, but other days it feels like a frantic race to get everything done. Today is one of those days. A Hutt has come to visit.

The giant snail-like creature arrives to slither in with about thirty guards and attendants. It’s a ramshackle bunch that includes a trio of Biths with their instruments, an alien monkey creature with an incessant annoying laugh, and a guy in mismatched Mandalorian armor who apparently thinks he’s needs to wear a jetpack indoors. As the Hutt meets with Maul alone, the Hutt’s men make themselves at home, putting their boots on the furniture and sloshing their drinks on the carpet. They are a lot of thugs and drunks, Rhea silently judges, as she passes drinks and offers refreshments. She catches the other maid’s eyes from across the room. They both know they’ll be cleaning up after these guys for hours tonight.

“They’re sure drinking a lot for this time of day,” Rhea remarks under her breath when she and Marisol confer a moment in the hallway.

“I’ll fetch some more bottles,” her colleague volunteers. “It’s best to keep them happy until they go.”

“Right.” Rhea nods and goes back into the reception rooms to see what else they need to replenish. And that’s when a blue-skinned, horned Chagrian approaches her. “How’d you get that scar?” he asks, like this is a bar and he’s trying to strike up a conversation.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Rhea is used to receiving curious looks and outright stares for her face. She understands people’s curiosity even if she resents their fascination. But the comment is just rude as an opening line. This guy knows nothing about her, but he immediately manages to reduce her to her disfigurement. These moments fuel her self-consciousness and they eat away at her confidence. Determined not to be hurt, Rhea squares her shoulders. “Excuse, me.” She favors the man with a tight smile and makes to pass him.

But he steps in her path. Directly in her path. “Now, don’t run away. I’ve been watching you. Stay and talk a bit. Our boss could be in there another hour with your boss. So . . . show me some hospitality,” he leers.

“I’m sorry, but I’m needed in the kitchen--”

“You know, you’d be pretty without that scar. What do you think, guys?” the Chagrian addresses his Hutt brethren standing nearby. “Do you think if I close one eye when I look at her, I will still see it?”

That lame joke gets a laugh and it gets Rhea angry. But she’s too proud to let this guy know he succeeded in getting under her skin.

He’s just messing with her, she knows. Men like this guy push until you push back. It’s their modus operandi for all things. And depending on how you push back and who’s around to witness it, they may or may not accept the rebuff. This is not the ideal situation, Rhea realizes as she glances around the room. She’s the only Crimson Dawn person here right now.

“I need to go,” she mutters as she tries again to dart past. “How about we talk when I return?”

“Come on, now. Don’t be like that.” The guy lays a restraining hand on her shoulder. And suddenly, a little annoying but heretofore harmless harassment feels truly threatening. Rhea’s pulse quickens.

“I need to go.”

“What’s your hurry?”

Her eyes meet the eyes of the Chagrian and narrow. She’s dealt with plenty of overly aggressive guys at her old job. She knows how to handle this. She tries to shrug him off. “Back off!” she hisses. “Just let me do my job.”

“Ugly scarred bitch.” The Chagrian’s grip on her arm tightens.

He’s a lot bigger than her, Rhea belatedly realizes. Plus, she’s increasingly aware that their standoff is attracting attention. They are creating a small scene

And that’s when the door slides open and Maul walks in. _Tap, tap, tap, tap_. Behind him looms the lumbering shadow of the visiting Hutt.

The atmosphere immediately shifts. The Chagrian lets go and steps back. Not because he feels he has been caught doing anything remiss, mind you. But because Rhea is suddenly much less interesting by comparison.

Maul’s eyes immediately find her. “Get in the kitchen,” her boss snarls, like he’s offended by her presence. “Stop bothering these men.”

Rhea is happy to oblige. She exits immediately and never hears what comes next. She sighs in relief later when she describes the confrontation to a sympathetic Marisol.

Hours go by and the Hutts are gone and their considerable mess is cleaned up. Mrs. Nettles sends Rhea to deliver Maul’s dinner as usual. By now, she knows to knock and then wait to enter. 

The door slides open and Rhea is granted entrance. This is the boss’ lair and it is a private place decorated with creature comforts and convenience in mind. Unlike the rambling showplace public rooms, this part of the compound is a habitual mess. There are datafiles and datapads lying about on most surfaces. There is a tray with Maul’s half eaten lunch to collect. There are also screens projected everywhere all going at once. How he makes sense of it all, Rhea will never understand. But it’s always the same frenetic cacophony of images and sounds when she enters. 

She moves to lay the new tray on the table by the couch where he likes to eat. Then Rhea reaches for the lunch tray to remove it. And that’s when Maul waves a hand and suddenly all the screens go blank and silent. 

It gets her attention. 

He turns to her now. “You should be careful with the Hutts. They are gross buffoons and their followers are little more than bandits. Hurting women is their idea of entertainment.”

“You saw . . . “ Rhea feels her face flush.

“Yes.”

She suspected as much but couldn’t be certain. “Thank you for intervening. Sir, that was good timing.”

He eyes her for a moment and grunts. “Stay out of sight when the Hutts are here or work in pairs with the other maid and that won’t happen again. You are too young and pretty not to attract attention.”

Rhea flushes harder now at the unexpected compliment. Blinking a bit in disbelief, she reflexively touches her scar. “Yes, Sir,” she breathes out.

“It’s not wise to tempt dangerous men,” he warns. And as Rhea meets his strange yellow eyes and nods, she wonders a moment whether he is talking only about the Hutt’s retinue. Because right now, Maul is looking at her very intensely. Could he be angry? She isn’t sure. He’s so hard to read.

But she is anxious to please. She hastens to reply, “Yes, Sir, I will remember. And thank you again for intervening.”

“Do not thank me,” he corrects her as he rises from his chair. He seems almost indignant at her gratitude. “If I do something you perceive as altruism, it’s always for my benefit. I’m not known for my good deeds. I am unfailingly rational.”

“So earlier with the Hutt men—when you had my back--“

“I didn’t need you to yourself get beat up. I wanted to make sure I got my dinner. The food’s improved since you got here.”

Rhea can’t help it. She beams from the second round of unexpected praise, no matter how gruffly it is delivered. “Right,” she breathes happily.

He grunts again and looks annoyed at her reaction. He waves her away. “That will be all.”

“Yes, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Tacitus for the paraphrase:
> 
> Auferre, trucidare, rapere, falsis nominibus imperium; atque, ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant.
> 
> "To ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles, they call empire; and where they make a desert, they call it peace."
> 
> Maul's a brute, right? Wrong. Listen to him speak in Rebels or Clone Wars and you will find his speech both formal and reflective. Often ironic and wry, as well. He's an educated man and it shows.


	3. chapter 3

The news out of Tatooine is disappointing. After much deliberation, he decided to delegate the matter and that looks to have been a good call. The tip from the Hutt turned out to be a wild bantha chase, unfortunately.

His man on the ground there now continues his report via hologram: “It’s a rough sort of place, Sir. Most everyone will talk for some credits, but often they’ll tell you what they think you want to hear.”

Yes, he knows. That’s typical. Informants often play to their audience to keep the money flowing. “You’re sure the information is not credible?” His disappointment nags at him to persist. He felt so certain about this tip. He was sure that this was the breakthrough he has been waiting years for.

“There may have been a Jedi here, but he’s gone now. This place is crawling with bounty hunters coming and going for jobs for the local Hutt. If any of them got wind of a Jedi close by, Boss, you can bet they would be after him and there would be talk. The Empire pays handsomely for intel on Jedi.”

Yes, but he pays better. Crime is his day job, but revenge is his true calling. Crimson Dawn was created in large part to finance his search for Kenobi.

The hologram fuzzes out for a second before it re-forms and the conversation continues. “Sir, I think we’re better off chasing down those rumors about the guy on Bracca.”

“That one’s just a Padawan.” He has no interest in random leftover Jedi schoolkids. They are unlikely to be in contact with a Master on the High Council like Kenobi.

“It’s possible that boy might have information. Sir, it’s the best lead we’ve got now that this Tatooine business didn’t pay off.”

“Alright,” he relents with a sigh. “Track him down. Send me the surveillance and I’ll decide whether to bring him in.” 

“Any news from Sluis Van, Sir?”

“Not yet. I’ll be in touch when I hear.”

He ends the hologram call. Then, he sits back in his chair to mull over his predicament. All these years and still . . . no Kenobi. Chasing his enemy has turned into the work of a lifetime. It’s almost thirty years since he first dueled the then Jedi Padawan on Naboo. He caught him on Mandalore years later and inflicted some damage, but Kenobi ultimately slipped through his fingers. And while his prey might have been a bit saddened from the murder of his Duchess, the Jedi was far from heartbroken like he had hoped. A true cold, stoic Jedi, Kenobi quickly moved on and resumed fighting for the Republic.

So, he tried another tactic. He would lure his nemesis Kenobi and reveal the truth of Lord Sidious’ plans for his friend Skywalker. Skywalker was like a little brother to his enemy and far closer to the man than the pacifist Duchess. But the plot failed when he accidentally lured Skywalker’s Padawan instead. Then, Order 66 changed everything when the Jedi went into hiding. The trail went cold and has stayed cold ever since. It’s . . . dispiriting.

He lifts his hand now and a small, ornate cube floats into his grip from the corner of his desk. The little object is slightly battered but it still works, just not for him. He turns it over in his hand, studying the trinket that he keeps as a talisman of his quest. He vows anew now silently to get his revenge, if it takes forever. Kenobi cost him everything. He must suffer and die for it.

But revenge won’t come today or anytime soon. It makes him feel discouraged. With a heavy sigh, he puts down the cube and stands to wander to the window. She’s out there again tonight. The little Twi’lek doesn’t do this every evening, but it’s often enough to mean something. She brings him his dinner and returns the lunch tray to the kitchen. Then, she wanders out of the villa. She stands for long minutes staring out at the field of battle wreckage.

He reaches out to nudge at her mind with his own and, yes, she is just as pensive as he is. She’s brooding, like he does. It’s the habit of a much older soul. And what is she? Twenty-five standard years or something thereabouts? She had said she has been in his gang for ten years now. Twenty-five is too young to be so careworn. Too many things are yet to come at that stage in life. And yet, the little Twi’lek he brought home has eyes like forty. Clearly, she’s seen a lot of hardship.

And that’s not unusual for a gang member. His motley criminal crew are mostly losers, orphans, and misfits. Sometimes self-destructive types who are too addicted to spice or liquor or gambling or porn or whatever to be successful in normal society. They end up at Crimson Dawn because the people who care about them have cut them loose or otherwise are gone. And so, even before men and women join up, they have seen trouble.

That’s a prerequisite for his organization. He wants no on-the-job disillusionment. Because whatever you saw before you join, you’re going to see even worse afterwards. His is a dirty business. And once you get in, you can’t get out. That’s not his rule, that’s THE rule, no matter which gang you join. It ensures that no one goes to the cops and only a fool tries to defect to a rival. For even though the Pikes and the Hutts might be happy to hear the information a Crimson Dawn lieutenant could tell them, they don’t want that man for their own employment. They’re no fools—they know that a man who cheats on his former boss will be disloyal to the new one when the opportunity presents. And so, while a rival might profit from a snitch, they won’t reward him. It’s a built-in incentive for loyalty. It means his men know to make the best of their situation because there is no alternative.

It’s different for the women. There isn’t much opportunity for them to function in the power structure. He’s never had a lieutenant who was female. Vos had one, but she’s dead now. She betrayed Vos and that betrayed the gang, and that was the equivalent of betraying him. For that, she had to die.

Maybe some might think it odd for a Sith to demand loyalty. For after all, deception and betrayal are hallmarks of its brotherhood. But deep within the Sith ethos there exists a strong streak of allegiance and obedience. It is a close corollary to the need to control and to dominate. Why? Because faithfulness is at the core of the compact between Master and Apprentice. The Master trusts his student and entrusts him with knowledge for the next generation, all in expectation of the day when the student will best him. That is the way of the Sith—the Master dies with a smile on his face, certain that he has reared a worthy replacement. And in return for that opportunity, the student owes the Master unquestioning loyalty until the time comes for him to ascend.

His Master broke that compact. Yes, he failed at Naboo. He killed only one Jedi, not both. But Lord Sidious let him down when he spurned him afterwards.

That private pain is a guiding principle in how he manages Crimson Dawn. In the brotherhood of crime he has erected, he keeps his promises. For he who has been betrayed knows better than to betray himself. Work hard and do well in his gang, and you will be rewarded. Lesser performance may provoke

punishment or demotion. But betrayal always connotes death. Those are the rules and everyone knows them. There are no exceptions.

His eyes wander towards the window again to his newest staff member. The little Twi’lek is still there. He enjoys looking at her. She has the wide set eyes and high cheekbones that make the females of her species famed for their beauty. Plus so much smooth, youthful green skin that glows from within and just begs to be touched. Her purple rosebud mouth flashes pretty teeth when she smiles, which is rare. Altogether, she’s quite charming once you get used to the scar.

She’s petite, like he prefers. Small boned and narrow. It gives her a waifish look more in keeping with a teen than a grown woman. Actually, she looks like someone’s daughter. She’s certainly young enough to be his daughter. What is she—half his age? Maybe less? He feels like a pathetic old voyeur now as he watches her from the window. This is what being a eunuch has reduced him to.

Should he go join her?

Should he talk to her?

No. What is he thinking? Why is he wasting time contemplating his melancholy housemaid who is far beneath him? He has more important tasks to do. Time to check in on his man on Sluis Van.

The news he hears is promising, and it’s the encouragement he sorely needs. There is a Jedi on Sluis Van, as rumored. This one’s a kid too. He should be easily captured. In a fit of optimism, Maul decides to bring him in.

It’s not worth his time to spend four full days on a ship roundtrip to Sluis Van. So he orders the Jedi brought to the compound. He has a holding cell at his home built specifically to detain a Force user. This isn’t the particular Jedi he wishes to imprison, but it’s a useful place to stash the fugitive temporarily.

A week later when he walks down to meet his new captive, he finds a near human boy still in his teens. He must have been a youngling at the time of Order 66. Today, he’s slightly battered, but still fully functional. The kid sits slumped on the cell bench in handcuffs. His expression is fearful.

“Another Padawan Learner,” Maul growls as he admits himself and another underling into the cell. He doesn’t even bother to bring a weapon with him. This quaking kid is no threat.

“One might wonder why so many Jedi youth survive,” he muses, endeavoring to sound as bored as possible. “But then again, self-sacrifice is a common fetish among Jedi Masters. How did yours die, boy?”

The youth scowls up at him. “Running from clones. She saved me.”

“Uhmmmm,“ he nods knowingly, “a common fate, but a strategic misstep. Far better that the Masters live to pass on what they have learned than that a handful of poorly taught younglings attempt to rekindle the fire of the Jedi Order on their own. Were you Sith, you would have been left behind to die. Only the strong survive on the Dark Side.” It’s a lesson he himself knows all too well.

His agent who brought this kid in now produces the captive’s sword hilt. “He was armed only with this.”

Maul accepts it. “Ah, yes, a Jedi’s weapon.” He ignites the saber just to see the shackled boy on the bench flinch.

Maul chuckles under his breath. This proto-Jedi can’t begin to control his fear.

Just to ratchet up the tension further, he takes a moment to admire the solid, gleaming yellow blade. It is the crystal color most associated with the Jedi Sentinels. “You were young for a Temple guard,” he observes wryly. “What were you—age six at the time?”

“It was my Master’s.”

“A hand-me-down, then?”

“Who are you?” the sullen, scared kid rallies to demand. 

“Now, I am called Maul.”

The qualification does not go unnoticed. “What were you called?”

“Darth Maul.”

“S-Sith??” the kid looks as confused as he does terrified at this knowledge. “But there are always only t-two of you,” he sputters.

“Yes. Currently, there are two and one pretender. Never fear, I am the genuine article.” 

He deactivates the weapon and clips it on his belt as the boy looks to it with naked longing. 

“You’re going to sell me to the Empire, aren’t you?” The Padawan grimaces as he squares his narrow shoulders. “Well, I’m not afraid to die,” he proclaims in a cracking, choked voice that is less than convincing.   
  


“Good.” Maul smirks at this bravado. “Spoken like a true Jedi hero.”

“What is this place? It feels cold and strange.” The boy squints as he searches for the right words. He settles on, “murky.”

Maul nods to endorse this choice. “Here the shroud of the Dark Side clouds everything.”

“What is this place?” 

“It is called Dathomir. It has been home to witches and warriors of the Shadow Force for over a thousand generations.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I thought not,” Maul counters breezily. He crosses his arms and stares down the kid on the bench. “It’s not a world the Jedi acknowledged. You don’t know the power of the Dark Side, my young Padawan.”

The boy gulps. “So . . . this is the Sith homeworld?”

“No. There is no Sith homeworld. Darkness dwells everywhere. Under your nose and in places you prefer not to look. The Sith hide in plain sight. We always have. It was the Jedi who deceived themselves.”

“I’ll never turn to the Dark Side. I won’t be your Apprentice!”

The comment touches a nerve. He responds sharply, “You’re not up to the task, boy. I had a worthy Apprentice once. Alas, he is gone and I walk alone these days.”

“I’ll never turn to the Dark Side,” the kid reiterates staunchly. Like every Jedi everywhere, he’s paranoid that a Sith will steal his soul and seduce him to the Dark Side. It’s so cliché. Even now, the petrified boy announces with fervent zeal, “I am a Jedi. I’ll never turn to the Dark Side!”

Whatever. Maul merely shrugs. “Then you will die if Vader and his Inquisitors catch you. The choice is yours and it matters not to me. Now, then,” he removes his left glove leisurely, “let us get to work. I wish to know what you know of Master Kenobi.” 

He raises his hand to the captive boy’s face. The kid lurches back, but Maul holds him tightly with the Force. Summoning his power, he invades the incapacitated boy’s mind. “Give everything,” he purrs.

The Padawan is as valiant as his words promise. He struggles to push back against the Force hold and endeavors to resist the mental intrusion. There’s no denying the youth has talent, but he has no training to speak of. And so, even while he moans out, “I’m not giving you anything,” through Force frozen lips, the kid’s mind leaks like a sieve to the far more experienced Sith. 

“We’ll see,” Maul smirks as he rips fast through the boy’s memories. 

He’s seen a version of this kid’s life before. All these surviving Padawans live as fugitives under false names, hiding their gifts and moving place to place to avoid discovery. He never understands why this choice makes sense. Why do these young people hold fast to the Light Side cult they were raised in? They were young enough to start anew. To renounce their former lives and move on. Why chase after the glory of the past long gone? Sure, he himself hasn’t chosen that path. But that’s different. He was on the winning side. And he was far more vested in the Sith when his own challenges came. 

There is blood weeping from the trembling boy’s nostrils now and his eyes squint with pain as he continues his futile attempts to resist. “I’ll die . . . before I give you . . . anything . . .” he gasps.

“That will not be necessary. Your feeble skills are no match for the power of the Dark Side.” Does this kid not realize that he is already freely sifting through his mind? Maul slows down now to take his time. He likes to be thorough. Before he’s done, the kid slumps and succumbs to unconsciousness. Like usual, that makes things more efficient. 

Unfortunately, what the interrogation reveals is useless. This leftover Jedi is completely cut off from his brethren. He has no knowledge of Kenobi or any other living Jedi. It was a complete waste of time to bring him in. Disappointed yet again, Maul decides to salvage some benefit from the situation.

He orders, “Rouse him,” and then watches as his underling administers not one, but two, stim shots to the captive. Soon, the strung-out boy is wide awake with his teeth chattering. He gulps for air and his body shakes uncontrollably. 

“Ah, welcome back,” Maul can’t resist a little sarcasm. “Well, that was disappointing. What a wretched life you lead. But I did learn that you have one of these.” He reaches into his pocket to retrieve the cube he keeps on his desk. 

“Where did you get that?” the boy yelps. 

“Off a dead Jedi who made the poor decision to pull a sword on me.” He floats the cube over into his captive’s bound hands. “Open it. Summon the Light and let me look upon my prey once more.”

“No!” the boy recoils reflexively. They all do. 

Maul sighs and rolls his eyes. Then, he urges, “Do not be afraid to demonstrate your skills. Show me the Light,” he invites coyly. “Impress me, Jedi.”

“No!”

“Such vehemence.” He cocks his head. “What are you afraid of? I already know what’s on the recording. You won’t be revealing anything new.”

“Then why do you want to see it?”

“Because Kenobi and I have a long history that started long before you were born.” He considers the miserable youth and opts to bargain to cut things short. “I will make you an offer. Open the holochron and I will set you free.”

“I don’t trust you. You’re a Sith!”

“How you malign us,” he chides softly. “The Sith deceive, we do not lie.”

“There’s a difference?” the boy challenges.

“Yes. And what choice do you have? Open the holochron and show me the message and you will live another day on your quest to rebuild your cult.”

The Padawan wisely gives in. It takes surprisingly little prodding. Before long, the beleaguered kid closes his eyes and concentrates as Maul waits with an inhaled breath. 

But the boy falters. He’s a woeful novice. “I can’t do it . . . I can’t focus . . .”

No doubt it’s the double stim shots. Maul lets lose an exasperated sigh. Then, he begins to talk the Padawan through it. “Let go your conscious self. Quiet your mind. Stretch out with your feelings—“

The Jedi boy chokes in horror. “Wait—you know how to do this??”

Maul shrugs. “I learned a slightly different version. But for the basics, the Force is the Force. Now, concentrate. Try again.”

This time, it works. The little cube levitates, then separates. A decade old recording broadcast from the Coruscant Jedi temple begins to play. He knows the words by memory, but still he watches keenly. Longingly.

“This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen, with the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place. This message is a warning and a reminder for any surviving Jedi: trust in the Force. Do not return to the temple. That time has passed and our future is uncertain. We will each be challenged—our trust, our faith, and our friendships. But we must persevere and in time a new hope will emerge.”

This . . . this is worth the effort to bring the boy in. For just the sight of his enemy on the hologram stokes his anger and increases his power. He’s a man who is much aggrieved, but there is no greater hate in his life than for Kenobi. It is all the pain of his Master’s rejection, all the shame of his years of insanity, and all the guilt of his brother’s loss combined and magnified tenfold. This is Darkness so potent that he can feel his fingers twitch with the urge to shoot lightning. His eyes hurt from their now near neon yellow hue. The lust for revenge courses through him. Pulsing and throbbing. Urgent for release. Nothing feels like Darkness does. All the emotion channeled into power hurts so good. 

In this moment, enthralled by vengeance, he feels invincible. Like he can do anything and everything and no one can stop him. For the Dark Side wants it all, it wants it now, and it refuses limits.

“Good. Goood.” He groans aloud. His eyes are closed now to savor the moment. “That’s the man I remember,” he rasps, heedless of his uncomfortable audience. He revels in his obsession. “I will find him . . . I will make him suffer as I have suffered . . . ” 

This is no ordinary desire for payback. This is a decades long mania overripe for fruition. This bloodlust has been too long denied. There is a magnificent, almost romantic, desperation to it. And perhaps a sisyphean futility that he refuses to acknowledge. For he fears so much as he opens his eyes to gaze upon the ghostly hologram of his old nemesis. What if he never finds Kenobi? What if he’s already dead? What if he finds Kenobi, but cannot kill him? Worse still, what if he kills him and it’s not enough? He’s afraid, so afraid that somehow this will all be for naught. But he gulps back his misgivings and channels them too into power. Fear is the path to the Dark Side, after all. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering . . . to glorious, rapturous, empowering suffering. And therein lies the true lure of Darkness. It transforms the victim into the abuser, it makes the oppressed an oppressor, and it makes the slave into a master. You use your pain to validate and enable your excesses. In the end, you become what torments you.

_Can you feel this, Father? Do you sense my growing power?_ In a faraway palace on Coruscant, Maul is certain that his Master knows and approves. He’s proud of him for this moment, he’s sure of it.

The Jedi boy, however, looks aghast at what he is witnessing. “This isn’t about Order 66, is it?” he ventures weakly. “This isn’t about the Empire . . . ”

“N-No. No, it’s not.” 

He regains his composure now. He turns to the Crimson Dawn underling with him in the cell. “Take him away and let him go.”

“Where do I leave him?”

He considers a moment. “Take him to Coruscant. Drop him next to the Palace.” He hands back the saber to his underling. “Be sure to give him this. It will give him a fighting chance once the Emperor senses him.”

“You’re really setting me free?” the Jedi boy looks incredibly relieved. So much for all that earlier bravado. He looks ready to faint at this unexpected mercy.

Maul counsels, “You had better run fast. If you see the one they now call Vader, tell him I’m waiting for him here on Dathomir.”

The kid squints at him. “Who are you? Who are you really?”

Who is he? He’s the man who rightfully should be ruling at the Emperor’s side. A man who should be so much more than a crime lord with a lightsaber. But he settles on a simple answer. “My name is Maul. Remember it.” Then, he stalks back to his rooms.

Yet again, he is disappointed and discouraged. It makes him welcome the distraction of work. He needs diversion from his quest for revenge, if only to keep from going insane again from the glacially slow pace of it. So, he busies himself plotting his business with a Sith’s stealth. Staging ambushes on the Pike’s shipments and then providing manufactured evidence to his so-called allies so they will blame it on the Hutts. He fosters covert rivalries and private wars this way. Mostly because he’s bored, but it helps the bottom-line as well. It’s ridiculously easy to play these fools off one another. His competitors are way too gullible.

Moreover, they are entrenched. Entrenched in their positions, entrenched in their mindsets, and entrenched in their go-to solutions. If years as the Apprentice taught him anything, it is to look for patterns of behavior to exploit the predictability for yourself That’s how his Master expertly orchestrated the Clone Wars. Manipulating both sides successfully time and again. Darth Sidious knew how the Jedi thought and could predict how they would act. The same was true for the Senate, for the Trade Federation, for the Separatist leaders, and for all the main players. Sure, Lord Sidious outright controlled some of them. But he didn’t need to control everyone to get what he wanted. Years removed from his Apprentice days, Maul attempts to emulate those same mastermind strategies now in his current line of work.

As the Apprentice, he trained for power. For statecraft and for war. For his name inscribed in history books and on temple walls. For Dark glory on a grand scale not seen since before the time of Bane. And now? Well, Darkness remains his vocation, but on a far reduced scale. Instead of dealing in power, he peddles suffering and self-destruction. Crimson Dawn profits handsomely from it.

For Darkness is in the spice junkie’s obsessive need for his fix, it’s in the desperation that leads a woman into prostitution, and in the lustful loneliness that lures men to be her customers for transactional sex. Darkness fuels the violence for the marquee prize fights in his casinos. It’s in the avarice and the recklessness that motivate the high rollers in his gambling dens. Every deadly sin—from pride to greed, from envy to lust, from anger to laziness—is a mark of Darkness. It’s also his business model.

His father might sneer at his lowly occupation, but mother would understand. She saw him at his lowest point. As a raving lunatic who didn’t know his own name, but who still knew the name of the man he wanted to kill. “ _Kenobi! KENOOOBIIIIIII!”_ He had screamed the name until he grew hoarse. Mother approved. Good . . . Goood, she had soothed. Hold fast to that goal. You mature into Darkness, my son. Your time with that kidnapper Sidious is just a first step. This has been the second step. But there is more to come as you learn to recognize the Shadow Force from all its angles.

Mother was right. For he understands power differently now that he is an outsider looking in. And he appreciates everyday Darkness now that his mission is to promote ordinary people’s frailties. He is like the devil of old, tempting innocents and the guilty alike into their undoing. It’s not the same as ruling the galaxy, but it pays the bills. The problem is that it’s just not enough. None of it satisfies him. And that worries him greatly.

He hates when he gets in these moods. So he wanders over to his office windows now. Is she there tonight? She is. The little housemaid who suffers.

She’s presented in profile from this angle. It’s her good side. From here, she is a youthful beauty, arresting in her forlorn twilight reverie. But approach her from the other side and you get a distinctly different perspective. That scar is glaring.

The witch women of his people were tough. Some were warriors who had battle marks from their craft. They cultivated a strong, independent beauty. Fragility was not a virtue. And so those women might be enhanced by a mark or two. It would add to their aggressive allure. But not little Rhea. And not her particular scar. There’s nothing dashing about it. If he was a compassionate man—which he is not—he would be inclined to pity her—which he doesn’t. She’s a weak, hurt soul and that makes her contemptuous. 

That it’s the same contempt he feels for himself is beside the point.

That scorn is why the Chagrian had approached her when the Hutts were here. No doubt he saw that scar and knew that he could prey upon her. It’s why men find the fat girls and the shy wallflowers for a good time. They’re an easy lay because they are grateful for the attention. Their neediness makes them easy to manipulate. It’s pathetic, really, how simple it would be to seduce a girl like Rhea. He told her offhand that she was pretty and she had been ready to faint from the shock of it. Give her a few more affirmations and she’ll do anything for him, he suspects.

And maybe that’s what he needs. Maybe she is what he needs. So, he abandons his work to seek her company.

He joins her at the edge of the garden looking out. He stands at her shoulder. It’s a stance of solidarity, not of confrontation. But still, he can sense that his presence makes her nervous. It quickens her pulse and sets her adrenaline going. 

“Sir . . . ??” She looks to him questioningly.

There’s no need to intimidate this tremulous little creature further. So when he speaks, he endeavors to sound thoughtful. He gestures in the direction of the field they both dwell upon and omits any preamble. “If I removed the debris, it would make no difference. It wouldn’t change a thing that happened here.”

“I know.”

“You cannot unlearn what you have learned. You cannot unsee what you have seen. You cannot become the person you were before.” And why did he say that? Because that’s exactly what he’s trying to accomplish.

She nods but then softly disagrees. Maybe this wretched girl has some backbone after all, he thinks. For she posits, “Perhaps you’re right, but you don’t have to dwell on it. It’s not healthy to wallow in misfortune.”

He slants her a skeptical glance at this platitude that he knows she herself does not observe. “I see you here most nights,” he accuses mildly. 

“Oh.” She’s really flustered now. Reacting like she has been caught. “I’m sorry—is that not allowed?” She feels exposed and doesn’t bother to hide it. She’s utterly transparent and it’s sort of refreshing. It’s not what he’s used to.

He deigns to be magnanimous in his reply. “Brood all you wish. It’s a favorite pastime for me as well.” 

But she is still cowed. When she remains silent too long, he muses aloud, “Experiences make a mark on you. Sometimes, they leave an actual mark on you. But to wish them away is to wish to diminish yourself.” At least, that’s what he tells himself to rationale his own misfortunes. 

She calls him on it. “Is this a pep talk? Are you about to tell me that whatever doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger?”

He meets her eyes. Her lovely brown eyes. “It’s true,” he promises. 

And now, he senses that she once again disagrees. But this time, she doesn’t voice it. Maybe she doesn’t feel she can. Instead, she asks a home question in a quiet, sheepish voice. “Do you ever wish you had died along with everyone else?”

“No.” He answers straightaway. He fought to stay alive on Naboo and for years afterwards on Lotho Minor. He’s a fighter and always has been, for it’s hard to kill a Sith. His destiny still lies ahead of him . . . he hopes.

“Why? Why would you think that?” he demands. It comes out angrily. 

She answers in a small voice. “Because it is hard to be the one who survives.”

“Why?” he presses. 

“Because there’s no reason to go on. But still . . . you go on.” And that, in a nutshell, explains this young woman’s wounded and adrift psyche, he surmises. 

Well, he himself has a reason to go on. But her comment brings up yet again all the existential dread of his quest for Kenobi. He wonders a moment it will feel like when he catches up to his nemesis. What will it mean for him to vanquish the Jedi? What if killing Kenobi and even killing Vader isn’t enough for his Master? What if he is spurned yet again? What will his reason for living be then? Why fight so hard for what may be an elusive goal? The questions are as unanswerable as they are uncomfortable. Because perhaps there is less that separates him from that Jedi kid he just tortured than they both like to think.

Pushing those doubts out of his mind, he gives the housemaid his best advice. “You must find a reason to go on and cling to it. If the Force let you live, it was for a purpose.” 

“I’m not sure I believe in the Force, Sir,” she confesses. 

And that’s when he gets aggressive. “Believe it,” he growls. “The will of the Force matters more than our individual desires.” Most especially in the case of a Force blind nobody like herself. The arrogance of this lowly girl to doubt the majesty of the universe.

She takes the rebuke and looks at the ground. “Yes, Sir.”

And maybe that was too harsh. This little Twi’lek is less a heretic than she is ignorant, he suspects. So, he softens the statement. “The Force works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, its meaning can be hard to divine.”

“Yes, Sir,” she nods automatically.

Her rote affirmation is very unsatisfying. But he lets it slide.

He’s searching for something else to say when she asks timidly, “Did you lose your legs here in the war?”

It’s the erroneous assumption everyone makes. But he tells the truth to her direct question. “No. I lost them in a fight with a Jedi.” He might take offense at another person speaking of his injury. But not this disfigured housemaid. He knows her curiosity is motivated by empathy.

She looks to him with surprise. “You fought the Republic? You were a Separatist?”

“It was before the war.”

“Oh.”

He clarifies, “In a way, I was a Separatist. Not by the time the war came, but in the planning stages. I helped to lay the groundwork for the Confederacy.” Here again, he offhand reveals another truth.   
  


She turns to him with wide eyes. “You weren’t responsible for what happened here . . . were you?“

She wants him to deny it, but he doesn’t answer. He has no answer. Mostly because he isn’t sure. He settles on the easy explanation. “I blame my father for Dathomir. This slaughter was his doing.”

“Your father??” She looks horrified. 

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Her sincerity resonates with him. Before he can stop himself, he rushes to confess, “I love him still and yet I hate him.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He looks to her and nods, suddenly regretting he was so forthcoming. Because part of him is angry that his father overran his homeworld, but part of him is angry that his father did it without him. For he was supposed to be the Dooku figure. But he can’t tell this little housemaid that. So, he orders, “Go back inside. There are no answers here tonight . . . for either of us.”

He heads back to his office, more frustrated than ever. As he looks around aimlessly, his eyes fall on the Jedi holochron on his desk. He wonders now whether it is time to get some help for his quest.

He’s not the only person who hunts Jedi in addition to Vader. There is another practitioner of the Shadow Force lurking around waiting for his second chance. A man supposedly dead several times over. He can’t be trusted, of course. But where their interests overlap, he can be a useful tool. So when the exiled Muun makes contact from time to time, Maul always meets with him.

Well, this time, he will be the one to make the overture. Forget that Padawan on Bracca. His gut tells him that’s another useless exercise. He decides it’s time to find out what Darth Plagueis the Wise knows about a Jedi on Tatooine.


	4. chapter 4

Mrs. Nettles is stressed when Rhea reports to work in the morning. “My knee is acting up today,” the housekeeper complains as she wipes a hand down her long, tired face. “I put a bacta patch on it last night and it did nothing to help. I didn’t get a wink of sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” Rhea commiserates. “Ready for me to take the boss his breakfast?”

“Already did it myself. But I’ll need you to answer the door this morning. I’ll be limping if I do it.”

“We have visitors?” This is news.

“Yes. Can you welcome him and show him into the formal office? Maul will want everything done right today. It’s important.”

“Sure, but I didn’t know we were expecting visitors.” Visitors do not usually arrive without advance notice. Meetings between crime lords and their lieutenants are highly choreographed occasions. Plus, you’re likely to get shot down if you randomly fly over the Crimson Dawn compound uninvited.

Mrs. Nettles sighs, “I just found out about it myself a few minutes ago. I already sent Marisol to do a quick walk through and dust for the public rooms.”

“Does Cook know?”

“He won’t eat. This one never stays long. They talk and then he leaves and Maul is in a bad mood afterwards. A very bad mood.” The housekeeper shoots Rhea a meaningful look. “Stay out of his way today if you know what’s good for you.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t let the lack of notice fool you—this meeting is important.” Frazzled Mrs. Nettles leans in to divulge. “I should have known something was up when I saw Maul had his boots on.”

“Oh.” That’s supposed to mean something? 

“Now, come over here so we can practice. I want you to do this right. Oh!” the housekeeper catches herself and leans down to rub at her leg, “My aching knee . . . I need to sit down.”

“Here.” Rhea grabs her a chair from the kitchen table.

From that perch, the housekeeper drills her three times on what to say and how to act when Rhea substitutes in her place to formally receive the guest. “Address him as ‘my Lord’ and not ‘Sir,’” she is told. “Don’t flinch when you see his face. It’s way worse than yours. Just pretend not to see it,” Mrs. Nettles advises with her characteristic frankness. “He sometimes comes with his old servant. If he’s got that Vanee fellow with him, just show the man into the good parlor. Marisol will set up a coffee service in there. Wait in the office until Maul dismisses you. And be ready see the guest out when he leaves. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ooooh,” the housekeeper frets again, “why did my knee have to act up on a day like today?”

“I can handle it,” Rhea assures her. How hard can this be?

Twenty minutes later, the whine of ion engines can be heard from the landing platform. “He’s here.” Mrs. Nettles picks a piece of lint off Rhea’s grey uniform dress and bustles her off to the front door. 

On the way, Rhea passes the formal office. Maul’s in there alright, she spies, and as promised he has his boots on. There are no metal feet on display today. He wears a long black hooded cloak that covers him head to toe. She’s seen it before, but he rarely wears it at home. Through the open doorway, Rhea sees that he is pacing. That too is unusual.

He’s nervous, she realizes.

Standing in the villa’s expansive entryway, Rhea can see a gleaming ship touching down outside. It’s the size of a yacht and it’s covered with gorgeous chromium plating. Whoever this visitor is, he’s rich. He’s also alone. For when the ramp deploys, a single person disembarks.

Even from a distance, Rhea can tell that this visitor is enormously tall. But that’s all she can see as she surreptitiously glances out the window. The man is covered head to toe in a flowing black hooded cloak very much like Maul’s. The visitor moves at a slow, stately pace with an awkward gait that suggests injury. It makes Rhea wonder what he is hiding under his robes.

The man is met on the landing platform and escorted to the villa entrance by Maul’s top lieutenant. He then hands off the guest to Rhea who waits standing very composed in the doorway.

“My Lord,” she greets the visitor as instructed, “Welcome.”

The man peers down at her from his enormous height. “Hello there,” he answers pleasantly. But all Rhea can see is his mangled face. Mrs. Nettles is correct. This guy is more damaged than she is.

He’s humanoid, but beyond that she cannot place his species. He’s simply too disfigured. He has a long, jagged scar that splits his forehead and a hole in one cheek. His damaged skin is pinkish-grey, lined, and weathered. It makes him appear more mummy than man. Like he should be dead but he’s not.

She gets caught staring and flushes. Has she offended? No, Rhea senses, she hasn’t. The visitor’s eyes linger on her own scarred cheek. They seem almost kind.

They are yellow eyes like Maul’s, Rhea belatedly realizes.

Unexpectedly, the man smiles. It transforms his face. And yes, she’s right. He has not taken her gaze to be rudeness, but as sympathetic curiosity. She is enormously relieved. Gawked at as she is, Rhea does not want to repeat the offense to others.

“I have come to see Lord Maul,” the man announces in a gravelly baritone. The words come out deep, slow, and authoritative. It’s the kind of voice that makes you want to obey.

“He is expecting you. Right this way, my Lord.” Rhea ushers him towards the formal office, careful to match her pace to the visitor’s slow, painful looking plod. Whatever damage this man keeps covered beneath his expensive satin trimmed cloak, it must surely match his ruined face. It makes Rhea count her blessings, for she escaped intact from her trauma save for her face.

Maul has ceased his pacing as she and the visitor approach the office. Maul stands in front of his gargantuan and conspicuously empty desk, his arms crossed and head up. And that’s not what Mrs. Nettles told her to expect. She was told that the boss would be seated behind the big desk in the formal chair the staff all refer to as his ‘throne.’ But not today. Today, Maul is the one standing as the tall, monstrous looking stranger enters the room.

“Sir, your visitor is here,” Rhea presents the guest.

Maul doesn’t seem to notice her. He’s too focused on the newcomer.

Rhea takes up position just inside the door to wait to be dismissed. From there she witnesses the meeting begin.

The visitor halts a good four meters from his host. He reaches up to toss back the hood of his cloak. It reveals the full extent of his twisted, scarred features and completely bald head. Maul answers by tossing back his own hood to reveal his crown of horns that Rhea finds so regal.

Both men stare each other down for a long, silent moment.

“Lord Maul,” the visitor finally croaks as he inclines his head.

“Lord Plagueis,” her boss answers in his high rasp. “I see you’re still pretty.” Maul’s smile has a sardonic twist.

“I hear you’re half the man you used to be,” the visitor replies with his own smirk.

“No one’s ever really gone,” Maul chuckles like he’s enjoying this exchange of unpleasantries. “I’m not dead yet,” he brags.

“I’m not dead either,” the visitor replies with the ghost of a smile pulling at his malformed chin. “Each day I persist is a victory. It tells me the Force is with me.”

“It tells me the Rule of Two is a fallacy,” Maul quells this boast.

The older man corrects him. “The Rule of Two has long been a lie, my Lord. Through the years, it has been observed mostly in breach and seldom in compliance.”

Rhea isn’t following the meaning of this conversation, but she understands the body language and the tone. As an observer for months now at the villa, Rhea has become adept at reading the subtext of these exchanges. Right now, both men are posturing their hardest and enjoying the tension immensely. Each man knows the other man isn’t going to blink, but that doesn’t stop them from needling one another.

“How is your search for Kenobi is coming?” the visitor asks. “I presume that’s why I’m here. I myself have not located him. I followed a wild tip to Coruscant of all places and then to Tatooine recently. Alas, both missions came up empty.”

Maul glances over to catch Rhea’s eye now. “Leave us,” he orders as the two men begin to talk business. She dutifully slips out of the room and closes the door behind her.

Rhea waits, as instructed, in the entryway. When the meeting concludes, Maul and the visitor emerge. Maul waves her away as he accompanies the man to his ship himself. Rhea catches bits and snatches of the conversation as they walk by at the visitor’s limping pace.

“—can tell your power is maturing. I sense you more and more of late.”

“That means he senses me.”

“You were his Apprentice. He will always sense you. No matter what your relationship has become, that is a bond only broken by death. You must be patient, Lord Maul.”

“I’m not you. I don’t have forever.”

“You won’t need forever. Neither of us will.”

“You have foreseen something?”

“Things are not yet ripe to make a move. Consider my suggestion well. It might hasten things.”

Intrigued, Rhea lingers at the entryway to watch the pair head for the landing platform. She’s still standing there when Maul returns inside.

His eyes find her loitering. “How did you come to be opening my door this morning?”

“Mrs. Nettles’ knee is bothering her, Sir.”

“Uhmmm, yes. She limped in this morning.”

“I’m sure it will be better tomorrow,” Rhea cheerleads for the housekeeper.

“Far be it from me to begrudge her a knee injury,” Maul sighs, referring obliquely to his own injured legs. “Did she tell you how she got it?”

“No, Sir.”

“Ask her some time.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Maul loiters now too. He looks sad, Rhea thinks. Beneath the bold tattoos, there is a plaintive cast to his features. When Mrs. Nettles warned that Maul would be in a bad mood after the meeting, Rhea had just assumed she meant he would be angry. He’s angry a lot. But not this morning. Maul seems pensive, like the other night when he approached her in the garden. Like he’s upset and needs to talk to someone.

Sure enough, Maul takes up position at her shoulder. He too watches the visitor’s gleaming silver ship lift off. It emboldens her to ask, “Who was that guy?” She’s intrigued by the zombie-looking man who comes without an entourage, flies a Core tycoon’s ship, and dresses like an Emperor in exile. The man who makes Maul nervous and prompts him to wear boots to cover his injury.

“He’s the most dangerous man in the galaxy,” her boss answers softly. Maul’s voice is full of respect and Rhea thinks she detects a note of envy.

She blurts out, “I thought that was you,” before she thinks better of it.

Luckily, her comment does not offend. If anything, the boss seems tickled by the observation. Still, he decries it. “He’s the most dangerous man in the galaxy and not to be trusted.”

“But you still meet with him?” 

“We seek a common enemy. But I’m going to find Jedi Master Kenobi first.”

Maul’s expression is pure menace. Rhea is taken aback. This Jedi he seeks must be the Jedi who wounded him. That would explain Maul’s almost uncomfortable intensity right now.

“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?“ she whispers her suspicions aloud.

“Only after I make him suffer like I have suffered.”

“And will that make the visitor your enemy then?” Rhea is trying to understand the dynamics of the situation.

“I don’t care. All I care is that Kenobi dies . . . badly.”

“You want revenge?”

Maul’s answer is solemnly. “I live for it.“

She believes him. And now again, there is a haunted cast to his features. Is it fear? Could it be sadness? Maybe frustration? She can’t tell. Maul is so hard to read with those tribal tattoos that at first glance obscure his features. But beneath them, he has high cheekbones, the beginnings of a pair of jowls, and a straight, slightly aquiline nose. He’s a handsome man in a very atypical way that Rhea finds fascinating.

“This Jedi is the one who injured you?” she ventures.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t,” Maul snaps. And here is a flash of the bad temper Rhea was warned about. “You don’t understand at all. You’re not the type to want revenge.”

He says this like it’s a bad thing, but he’s right. Rhea doesn’t disagree. She simply counters, “Revenge won’t erase your pain.”

“He will share my pain. Isn’t that what misery always wants—company?“

She shakes her head at this jeer. “I wouldn’t want anyone to share my pain.”

“That’s because you are good, and I’m not.” 

Maul studies her a moment with those painful looking bloodshot yellow eyes. Is it the yellow eyes that cause the pain? Or the pain that causes the yellow eyes? Rhea wonders. Either way, those eyes are compelling. For in the moment, she cannot look away. This man—who is neither big, nor loud--has such presence. It’s more than that he’s the boss and he has the magic Force. It’s more than the Jedi weapon he has strapped to his waist. More than the fearsome red-black visage and brutal reputation. More than the foreboding _tap, tap_ footsteps that presage his appearance. Maul is intimidating and yet undeniably appealing. She’s not sure why.

Right now, those yellow eyes search hers. “I see your goodness,” he tells her in his characteristic husky rasp. There is an intimacy to his voice like a whisper. No one Rhea has ever met speaks like Maul does.

She is flustered. “I don’t understand—”

“I see your goodness. So did Plagueis. You made an impression, little one. He asked me who you are.”

Mortified Rhea is embarrassed to have called attention to herself. Mrs. Nettles will not approve. “It’s the scar. People notice the scar,” she mutters as she ducks her chin.

“No. He sees what I see. The Light.”

She looks up to echo blankly, “The L-Light?”

“Uhmmm, yes . . .” he rumbles. “Be careful with it. There is no place for it here.” Then Maul stalks away, leaving Rhea to wonder if she has just been warned or complimented.

Well, that’s over with. Confused Rhea returns to the kitchen to give a full report to Mrs. Nettles and Marisol, omitting that ending conversation with Maul of course. Then the day continues uneventfully as originally planned. When finally the dinner service for the barracks is done that evening, Rhea is tired. She brings the dinner tray to Maul, who habitually eats late, and then wanders out into the garden to watch the sunset. This has become a habit for her. It helps her unwind to get outside of the villa.

Somehow, Rhea isn’t surprised when Maul walks out to join her in the creeping twilight. Does he want company? Is he still brooding in the wake of his visitor? Maybe he just wants a breath of fresh air himself?

She watches him walk up. He has his boots off and the shrouding cloak is gone. But Maul still has his habitual air of nobility about him, Rhea decides. Maybe it’s due to his detachment, for he is so much alone. Even his men treat him with a formal respect that is very arm’s length. But for all his aura of command, she can’t help but notice a persistent gloom. Crimson Dawn’s leader is unhappy and it shows. 

Who talks first? Does she talk first? Or is that presumptive since he’s the boss? Rhea doesn’t know the protocol here, but she’s pretty sure she’s about to have another serious conversation with the mysterious leader of her gang. Why he wanders out to talk to her of all people, she doesn’t know. But it makes her both nervous and excited, and so she says what has been on her mind all day. 

“The visitor today called you Lord Maul.”

  
  
“Yes.”

  
  
She smiles. “That sounds like a Prince.”

  
  
“Yes.”

  
  
Really?? She’s girlishly charmed by the idea of knowing a real-life nobleman. It’s like something out of a fairytale except this handsome prince is a crime lord. But even that has a certain dark romantic appeal. Rhea gushes, “Prince Maul sounds good.”

  
  
“The traditional title is Darth.”

  
  
“Darth like Darth Vader?” That’s the only Darth she’s ever heard of.

  
  
“Yes.”

  
  
“Wait—he’s a Prince too?” Who knew?

  
  
Maul is glum as he scowls. “He is the Crown Prince now. The Apprentice.”

  
  
“Oh.” 

  
  
Her enthusiasm is quelled. Clearly, this was the wrong topic to raise. The boss looks even more ill-tempered now. His eyes slit with resentment as he reveals, “I am no longer Darth Maul. I was disowned long ago.”

  
  
“D-Disowned?” she parrots weakly, wishing again now that she had never brought this issue up.

  
  
“Cast out . . . abandoned . . . forsaken . . . thrown away . . . left for dead. Choose your verb, they all fit.”

Yikes. “W-Why?”

“For failure.” Maul’s mouth twists in an ugly grimace. “My father had high expectations for me. I let them down.”

Rhea cringes inwardly at how fast the conversation has become heavy and personal. But he’s here to talk and he raised the subject. 

Recalling their prior conversation, Rhea gestures to the battle refuse strewn before them on the other side of the fence. “By your father—you mean the man you blame for this?”

“Yes.”

  
  
“Why? Why would he do this?” Why would anyone think wholesale slaughter is the right solution to conflict? “Was it just to hurt you?” she guesses.

  
  
Maul looks at her like she’s naive, which she is not. Then, he condescends as he schools her in the ways of his family. “My father did it for power. It’s why he does everything he does. It’s never personal. He wants what he wants and he gets it. He is very effective.”

  
  
“But what power did these people have?” Rhea protests. “This an obscure world.” It barely has any mentions on the holonet—she’s looked. The few entries she’s found on Dathomir are mostly devoted to study of the local rancor species.

  
  
“This world was obscure by design. Only those who needed to know what was here ever learned of us . . . and they didn’t need anyone to help guide them.”

  
  
Oh. “What was here?” she ventures, almost afraid to ask. It must have been important for the Separatists to cause so much destruction. “What power did your world possess?”

  
  
He looks her in the eye now. “We had the Force. All of us. We were the Nightbrothers and the Nightsisters of Dathomir. Force witches and Force warriors since time immemorial. Since before the Sith and before the Jedi.” Maul looks away again as he laments, “My father would not tolerate rivals he could not control. My mother was his equal in many ways and he knew it.”

  
  
“So he k-killed everyone?”

  
  
“Yes.”

  
  
“That means he was a Separatist?” Rhea asks, as her eyes dart again over to the droid wreckage.

  
  
“When it suited him.”

“I don’t understand. Which side was he on?”

“Technically both. But his only loyalty is to himself. Certainly, not to me. Once I lost to the Jedi, I was dead to my Ma-father.” 

Maul looks so hurt as he says this that Rhea has to stifle the urge to comfort him. This man is bleak and disillusioned tonight. Is this the bad mood Mrs. Nettles predicted the visitor would cause? Because Maul looks very in need of a hug right now. But one does not hug a crime lord, so Rhea keeps to her role as servant. 

Does he know what she’s thinking? Rhea isn’t sure how the Force works. But he must recognize her impulse to sympathy because he nods in her direction. It is a shared moment of understanding that momentarily bridges the gulf between them. For if fear makes companions of us all, loss makes us fast friends. Rhea has lost her family. And so, it seems, has Maul. 

  
Her receptive ear loosens his tongue. “I wasn’t always a criminal. I was raised for better than this.” He glances to her. “What did want to be, Rhea?”

  
  
“To be?” she echoes, a little surprised that he actually remembers her name.

  
  
“No one aspires to be a maid in a crime syndicate. What did you want for your future?”

  
  
Does it matter? “I was sixteen when the war came to Ryloth. The war changed everything.” Nothing has ever been the same since for her.

  
  
“Sixteen is old enough to know some of what you want in life. I know you didn’t want this. No one wants this.”

  
  
She is uncomfortable with this topic. Rhea doesn’t like the ‘what if’ alternate realities of a life without the war. It depresses her to dwell on all she’s lost. It’s best to make peace with what she has now. But her boss is the persistent type and, well, he’s the boss. So, she answers, “I wanted to finish school and go to university. To get a degree and start a career. Get married and have a family. The usual dreams, I suppose. They were very achievable, actually. Back then . . . not now . . . ”

  
  
“I didn’t want this,” he admits softly. He scowls as he turns back to look at the luxurious villa. “I still don’t want this. But it’s what I have.” And now, Rhea thinks she’s beginning to understand Maul’s predicament. The man is dissatisfied. Whatever he and the visitor talked about today, it must have stoked his vexation.

  
Well, Rhea understands completely. “My mother was a doctor. She would be horrified at what has become of me. Look at me—I’m a maid. I never even finished high school. Let alone college and a graduate degree.”

  
  
“She’s dead?”

  
  
Rhea nods. “The hospital she worked at was shelled. The droids intentionally targeted it, according to the Republic. The Confederacy denied it, of course. Not that it matters. She’s gone either way.” Assigning blame won’t bring her back.

  
  
Maul nods and then reveals, “My mother died here when Grievous and Dooku came with the droids. She died saving me.”

“How brave she must have been,” Rhea murmurs, trying to be supportive.

“It wasn’t her first sacrifice for me. First, Mother gave up power to heal me. Later, she gave her life so I could live.” Maul’s mouth twists in a wry smile. “I’m sure she wanted me to live so I could thwart my father. Mother hated him.”

  
  
“Would she be proud of you?“ Rhea asks the only question that matters.

  
  
Maul doesn’t answer.

  
  
“Because I think my mother would feel ashamed of what I have become.“ Hot tears flood her eyes and Rhea blinks them back. It’s humiliating to confess the truth out loud.

  
  
“Ashamed because you’re Crimson Dawn?“

  
  
She glances down at the gang tattoo on her wrist that matches the gold medallion Maul wears around his neck. “Yes.” 

Rhea looks away as she feels her lower lip start to tremble. She struggles to keep her composure, embarrassed to be weepy before this man. But discussing her downward mobility is hard. You’re supposed to at least equal the prior generation’s accomplishments, if not supersede them. But Rhea didn’t measure up. “Sir, my parents were educated professionals. Law abiding and conventional people. I would have been the same had the war not come to Ryloth.”

  
  
“Uhmmmm, yes . . . war changes everything,” Maul comments as she sniffs. He doesn’t tell her not to cry. He doesn’t try to comfort her. He just considers her a moment before he shares, “My mother was a witch. She was a very strong person in every way. She used to say that to betray one’s self is the ultimate defeat. Mother would reject the idea of disgrace. For her, all that mattered is what you want and whether you get it, not what others think.”

  
  
Rhea disagrees. “That’s not how shame works. Shame isn’t just what others think. That’s the problem. It’s what I think too.” And there—she’s said it. She’s very disappointed in herself for not making better choices years ago. 

  
  
His bloodshot yellow eyes find hers. “I know.”

  
  
The understanding she sees reflected there helps. Rhea wipes at her own eyes and decides, “I think if my mother knew all the circumstances, she would understand. I mean, I hope so. But she would still be disappointed. She wanted more for me.” 

  
  
“My father is ashamed of me,” Maul volunteers. His voice is always a bit husky, but especially so now. 

  
  
“At least, you know he lives. I don’t know what happened to my father.”

  
  
“Did he leave your family?”

  
  
“No. We got separated in the war.” Rhea tells the tale as simply as possible now, omitting years of details. “My sister was with me when the shell hit. We both were medivac-ed out by the Republic to a hospital station in another system. After she died of her injuries, I got resettled with a bunch of other unaccompanied minors. Sir, I looked for years, but I never found my father. He’s probably dead. There are a lot of missing and unaccounted for civilians from back then.”

“You had a sister? Tell me about your sister.”

Rhea looks away as she recalls, “She was two years older, but she was very much the big sister. Thetis was the bossy, take charge type. I was the follower.”

Maul looks at her expectantly, so she continues. “She was my best friend. I admired her so much that I didn’t mind being in her shadow. Thetis was quite the achiever.” Rhea can’t help but smile as she recalls the sometimes overbearing older sister who excelled at everything with little effort. It was as maddening as it was impressive.

“And you?”

“She was the brains. I was the pretty one.” And as soon as that lament slips out, Rhea colors red and reflexively reaches for her scar. “I’m not the pretty one anymore,” she mutters.

“I was very close to my brother. He’s gone too.”

“The war?”

“No. My father killed him.”

She recoils. “I’m so sorry! Sir, he sounds like an awful man.”

Maul surprises her when he disagrees. He sounds more thoughtful than bitter now and he proclaims, “My father is a great man. He does not live by conventional morality. Your sense of right and wrong would mean nothing to him. All that matters is power. With power, you can decide to be merciful or to be harsh. He taught me to do the same.”

“Oh.” That must explain this man’s reputation for being ruthless.

“I was stolen by my father. Mother hated him for that. But he raised me. He makes a habit of taking would-be rivals under his wing to make them allies. He’s doing it now with my current replacement.”

“Replacement?” Rhea winces at the word choice. 

“I have been replaced several times over now.” Maul’s face is hard as he hisses, “I live a life of crime while his latest adoptive son preens before the cameras.” He scowls long and hard now. “He raised me for better than this.”

“I’m sorry.” Who is this man, she wonders. Who is Maul’s father?

Her boss sighs heavily. “Everyone here has a sad story. Surely, you know that by now. It’s our recruitment strategy.”

  
  
“Yes,” she nods, “but, Sir, I think you might have the saddest story of all.” She means this with respect.

  
  
“It’s not a competition,” he grumbles. “Don’t feel too sorry for me. I was complicit until my father turned on me. And in trying to get back into his good graces, I got my brother killed.”

  
  
“You feel responsible.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  
  
“In many ways, I am responsible . . . for all of it,” Maul admits. And now, suddenly he is angry and begins berating her. “Do not presume to pity me! You know nothing of who I truly am!” His voice is a low hiss but it might as well be a shout. 

  
  
He’s angry at the situation, Rhea knows. Not angry at her. He’s feeling exposed and vulnerable, she recognizes. So, she looks at him with sympathetic eyes that do not judge. 

It stokes his rage. “You don’t know me!” he sneers even though he’s just been disclosing at length his past. 

“I know you’re a prince, Darth Maul.”

He blinks. Her comment takes him aback. 

  
  
Then, it sets him off. “That name no longer has any meaning for me!” It’s a lie and his instant rage shows it. For this man is far from indifferent to his past life. In fact, he seems trapped by all the promises it did not fulfill. 

  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Rhea instantly grovels. “Sorry, Sir.” She said too much. She was lulled into a comfort zone by the raw confidences they were both sharing. And now, she feels a bit stunned. Like Maul has turned on her. Or maybe he’s decided to make her his whipping boy.

“Stop ‘yes Sir-ing’ me! I get that all day long. I don’t need to hear it now.”

“Yes, S—“

“Don’t! You’re not as subservient as you pretend. You said yourself that you weren’t meant to be a servant! Just like I’m not meant to be a criminal!”

She nods. Then takes a quick step back at his vehemence. She’s afraid now as she recalls vividly some of the more lurid stories she has heard about this man. He has the magic Force and that lightsaber, after all . . .

“Look at you, trembling! So afraid!” he jeers. “You’re pathetic! Just a homely, scarred housemaid who lives at my whim! No one will ever value you. No one will ever love you,” he condemns with vicious zeal. “You will spend all your days scorned and lonely . . . never fulfilling your potential . . . just another lost soul to populate my gang of losers and misfits.” With one last ugly snarl, Maul whirls and stalks off. 

Rhea watches him go. Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised by his flaring temper. The man is known to be volatile. But still, his sudden abuse is jarring.

One moment, he was a sad-eyed man in a reflective mood. The next moment, he was spitting venomous words. Lashing out to put her in her place. Those words had hurt. But the diatribe was more about him than her, Rhea suspects. For she now knows Maul is the guilty native son of a lost world. A rejected prince who says he loves and hates the father who disowned him. A reluctant criminal who is full of self-loathing. The leader of Crimson Dawn has turned out to be far more than just the thug she knew he would be. But right now, she’s relieved he’s gone.

How do we become the people we are? It’s a series of opportunities taken and opportunities forgone, of mistakes and missteps, of risks that panned out and risks that didn’t. Looking back, it’s always a linear progression. You can connect the dots and see the patterns. But in the moment, the path forward can seem less like small steps and more like giant leaps of faith. And sometimes, life sends you reeling to new beginnings you never sought. Things change abruptly and forever, and circumstances force you to change with them. It’s why an upper middle-class girl walking home from school with her sister ends up a disfigured orphan in a notorious gang. And maybe why a prince with the Force and some Separatist leanings ends up a disabled, disinherited crime lord.

Maul is back in the villa now. But the emotional distress he left in his wake remains with Rhea. He had known just what to say to prey on her insecurities. She feels diminished now. And watched. Is he watching her through his window? Because she feels very watched right now.

Why does Maul single her out for these intense personal conversations? Is it because she is the most junior member of the staff and that makes her a safe place to vent? Because with her, Maul won’t lose face before his men and the others who need to respect him? A man in his position must be careful who he allows to see him vulnerable, she knows.

After that night, Rhea manages to avoid delivering meals to Maul. Either Marisol handles the task or Maul ends up eating with his men during a meeting. But her plan to keep her distance lasts only a few days before Mrs. Nettles beckons to tell her the cook has supper ready for her to bring to the boss.

Rhea swallows her misgivings and resolves to be her utmost professional, unobtrusive self. She will drop the meal on the table, collect the lunch tray, and see herself out. There will be no emotional outbursts or inappropriate confessions. No bittersweet revelations or past regrets exchanged between near strangers.

But it all goes awry. The door to Maul’s personal space slides open before Rhea even lifts her hand to knock. It’s the magic Force, of course, and that sets a tone: he’s in charge.

Rhea collects herself and lowers her chin, determined to avoid eye contact. She’s going to make this as routine as possible.

Inside Maul’s lair, the usual mix of screens are off, but the lights are still dimmed. He is sitting at his desk fingering a little cube in silence. Brooding, most likely. He glances over to accuse, “Been avoiding me?” in his deceptively quiet manner.

“Good evening, Sir.” Rhea sidesteps his question. She moves to leave the tray on the table, but he redirects her.

“Bring it here. On the desk.”

Rhea reroutes herself as requested. She bends to place the tray beside him on his workspace, within reach but not in his way. It’s on the left side because he’s lefthanded and she wants to make it convenient. But the stretching movement sways her body and one of her lekku tentacles brushes against him.

Rhea freezes. Then, she immediately steps back. She feels her face flame with embarrassment at the accidental familiarity.

“Forgive me,” she stammers. “That was clumsy of me.”

Ugh. This is even worse than the personal conversation she is trying to avoid. Does he think that she is casting out allures? Nothing could be farther from the truth. She’s ugly, and she knows it. So she’s not the confident type who makes passes at men. Especially a man such as this. Good Gods, this is mortifying.

“Good night, Sir,” Rhea yelps as she heads fast for the door, completely forgetting to collect the lunch tray.

Maul turns in his chair. “Come here,” he commands.

She, of course, complies. “Sir?”

“Come closer.”

She steps forward again. Is he going to apologize? No, he’s not. Rhea watches with wide eyes as Maul raises a red hand. He trails two fingers lightly down her right lekku. All the way down her right lekku.

Rhea stands there not knowing what to do.

It ends with that touch. Maul returns his attention back to the cube he holds. “That will be all,” he dismisses her as if the caress had never occurred.


	5. chapter 5

He was raised to revere power. It is the means and the end, the path and the goal. To this day, the moment he walks in a room, he assesses the pecking order of the occupants. It is a habit his father instilled in him as a child. From a tender age, Lord Sidious taught him to be ruthlessly analytical in his stratagems. Know your place, his Master instructed. Understand your relationships to others. To what they want and what they fear. Then you will not make a stupid decision.

Maybe that cerebral approach might seem inconsistent with the passionate nature of the Sith, but it’s not. To be Sith is to marry passion with reason. We are not butchers, his father insisted, we are architects of the future. Be mindful when you indulge an impulse. Whether it was violence or sex, Lord Sidious was adamant that his young Apprentice exercise self-control. At times, he can still hear his father’s long-ago voice internalized in his head. _Control your urges._ Usually, that admonishment was followed by a heaping dose of Force lightning for emphasis.

And that was because a Sith’s focus post Bane is exclusively dominance. Darkness for a latter-day Dark Lord is honed for ambition. The other virtues of the Shadow Force like destruction, despair, and disorder all sublimate in furtherance of power. And so, while his father might be curious to learn the practices of the Dark occult from the Nightsisters, Darth Sidious considered those rituals to be optional enrichment. Power is the priority . . . always.

Power can take soft forms like wealth, influence, and information. Or it can manifest itself in traditional means like rank and position, military might, and the Force. But whatever its guise, power matters. And that’s why Darth Sidious taught his Apprentice to be very careful who he lets have power over him. So when he finds himself far too attuned to the comings and goings of his young Twi’lek housemaid, warning bells go off in his head. It’s a sign that young woman—whether she knows it or not—is getting power over him.

Such an irony that is. After all, Rhea Cardulla is a timid, fearful sort of creature. The type of woman who arouses protective instincts in others . . . but not him, of course. So why is he inappropriately fascinated with the girl? She poses no challenge. She is a subordinate he already dominates. Sure, she’s comely enough even with that face, but sex isn't really a goal any longer. So why does he show a sudden interest in the girl? The nature of her appeal worries him. _Control your urges_.

He's long been prone to obsessions. Fixations are a hallmark of Darkness. The Sith are obsessive, possessive, and ambitious by nature. It’s a special trifecta of qualities that promotes extreme behavior. That’s why his Master’s advice for self-control has been a lifelong struggle. The little Twi’lek who brings him meals and cleans his house is just the latest iteration of his penchant for indulgence.

He’s self-aware enough at this age to recognize that the girl arouses what little empathy lives within him. Plus, her growing sympathy for his predicament feels good. It’s been a long time since anyone knew his story and looked upon him with compassion rather than condemnation. That understanding—even if it’s rather rudimentary—is very welcome. Because a large part of him feels very misunderstood. He’s not the crime lord he pretends to be. He wants someone--anyone—to validate that. He is made for better than the life he lives. He has been cheated and it stings. And the more he learns of his refugee housemaid, the more he thinks she might be able to appreciate him in a way others cannot.

Basically, he acknowledges, he is drawn to her Light.

And somehow, some way, she seems to coax out some Light in him.

It’s humiliating. His Master would find him contemptuous for the weakness. He himself is a bit aghast. The Light is to be manipulated for Darkness. You don’t go seeking it for comfort. For a Sith needs no consolation other than power. If you need an outlet for excess emotions, you should vent them in violence. Or better still, channel them deep into Dark Force. But you certainly don’t go emoting them to the listening ear of another sad failure like Rhea Cardulla.

Damn, he’s as pathetic as she is. Maybe they’re perfect for one another, he thinks. But she’s half his age, a lowly maid, and there is no future in it for either of them. His days of seducing women are over. This infatuation can do nothing but complicate his life and then he may have to kill her. _Control your urges_. His Master always gave good advice. He knows he needs to take it. But he’s having a hard time in this instance.

He blows hot and cold for Rhea as a result. It’s happened a few times in passing now with their brief, near daily interactions. Alternatively, he berates her and then pretends it never occurred. She takes it, of course. She has to. She doesn’t even seem too distressed by it. She’s never overtly resentful, just sort of hurt. Is that her learned stoicism from her miserable life? Or is she truly that passive? Either way, she is weak and pitiful. Far beneath a Lord of the Sith.

  
  
Were he actually trying to manipulate her, this tactic would be extremely effective. Negging always works with women, especially the young ones. It stokes their need to please. To merit positive attention. A girl like Rhea who is used to scorn feels that impulse more than most, he suspects. But not tonight. Tonight, he wants to build her up since he’s feeling down himself.

  
  
So when the unconsciously beguiling Rhea arrives with his dinner and then makes to leave, he stops her. “Sit down.” It’s intended as a request, but it comes out like an order.

  
  
“Sir?” She looks to him.

  
  
“On the couch will do.” He softens his voice this time. Trying to sound friendly, which isn’t his normal demeanor.

  
  
She complies. Rhea perches on the couch like a wayward student sent to the principal’s office awaiting punishment. Other men might find that posture to be engaging, but not him. Still, she’s cute in her smart grey uniform with the long sleeves and high collar. The dress hugs her slight shoulders and skims her demure curves. Not that he’s noticed such things.

  
  
He’s been noticing something else. “I don’t see you in the garden lately,” he observes.

  
  
She peeps up. “Is that still allowed?”

  
  
“Yes,” he decrees, feeling very magnanimous. “Enjoy my garden whenever you wish.”

  
  
“Thank you.” She flashes a rare smile. It’s a little lopsided due to her injury. The hurt side of her face doesn’t have full range of motion. It makes her smile rather enigmatic, but still lovely to witness. Something about the contrast of the scarred side with the normal side makes her face gravely beautiful. It’s arresting for him now. Damn, he’s so drawn to this wretched young woman.

  
  
She accepts his offer. “I will go there tonight then, Sir.”

  
  
And, whoa, that’s not what he intends. “Go tomorrow night,” he preempts her. “Stay here tonight and talk to me.” It’s a request, but yet again the words come out in his habitual tone of command.

  
  
She immediately nods. “Of course, Sir.”

  
  
She’s been very stiff around him since he ran a hand down her tentacle. It was a misstep he regrets. That’s a direction he knows not to go, but he gave into the impulse. Now and then, even all these years later, he still misses the feel of a woman.

  
  
As a species, Twi’lek women have long been hyper sexualized. It’s why the Twi’lek whores in his brothels command a premium. Their distinctive, often exaggerated curves and big-eyed, wide mouthed faces are the stuff of male fantasy. Twi’lek beauty has been lauded in everything from epic poetry to pop culture for centuries. It’s why every Hutt keeps a Twi’lek dancing girl chained to his person as a status symbol. It’s why tentacle porn has long been a thing. Simply put, women like Rhea Cardulla are a galaxy wide fetish. Even he himself can’t help but be a little tempted when faced with one so conveniently available. 

  
  
“Had any run-ins like with that Chagrian lately?“ he asks, trying to make the question sound light and offhand. Like it’s small talk appropriate for a boss and an employee. But reminding himself of the incident has him suddenly wanting to know if men have been bothering Rhea. If so, he might need to kill someone.

  
  
She assures him, “No, Sir.”

  
  
“Good. Are you and Marisol working in pairs now?”

  
  
“Sometimes, but it’s really not necessary. Men don’t notice me in that way usually.”

  
  
“Are they blind?”

  
  
His growled comment makes her flush and smile sheepishly. “Thank you, Sir. That’s kind of you to say—“

  
  
“I am never kind.”

  
  
“—but I know I’m ugly. I see people avert their eyes and turn away. Some pity me, but most are repulsed.” He starts to speak but she forestalls him softly with a raised hand. “It’s okay, you can say it. I can handle it. I accepted it long ago.” Her face is sincere, but the Force tells him that she lies to herself now as much as she lies to him.

  
  
He objects. “You are damaged, not ugly. There is a difference.”

  
  
“I suppose.”

  
  
“There is a difference,” he insists. This is a point that hits close to home.

  
  
“Let’s be honest.” She inhales and exhales a slow breath as she looks away. “I have the face of a monster.”

  
  
Her blunt, harsh words prompt him to stand and cross the room. He looms over her seated on the couch as they continue this far too personal conversation. And now, it becomes personal for him as well. “You’re not the monster. I’m the monster,” he hisses. For he owns who he is. “You,” he jabs a finger down at her, “You have the face of a martyr. Of a victim. A victim of someone like me. A victim of someone for whom it was just business when they started a war that took years to stop.”

  
  
She’s ready to flee now. Jumping to her feet. It has them standing close. “Please, I don’t want to talk about this. If that’s all, Sir, I’d like to leave.”

  
  
“Does it hurt still?” he blurts out. He’s been wondering about that.

  
  
“Yes, it hurts. It always will! The war destroyed my life!” she wails as she edges away.

  
  
“I’m asking about the scar.”

  
  
“W-What??”

  
  
He lifts his hand, wanting to touch her skin again. The memory of running fingers down her soft, shapely lekku will only sustain him so long. What he really wants is to touch is this young woman’s fascinating face. “Will hurt if I touch it?” he rasps.

  
  
She recoils, lurching back.

  
  
“Tell me,” he presses, following her as she retreats.

  
  
“No, please don’t!”

  
  
She shakes her head, but he’s aggressive, as always. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. My creed teaches no shame. Suffering makes you stronger. Own who you are, little one. I do.”

  
  
She’s got her hand cradling her ruined cheek protectively as she cringes back. “It’s n-numb mostly. The nerves never fully healed back. There’s too much scar tissue.”

  
  
“I understand. I am the same.”

  
  
“You do? I mean, you are?” She blinks.

  
  
“I lost my legs.”

  
  
“Right, I forget that. You move so well.” She drops her protective stance now as she begins to appreciate that he’s not being luridly curious. This isn’t gawking, for severe injury is a shared experience for them both. She mumbles, “You seem so normal that I forget that you were hurt.”

  
  
He’s far from normal, but he takes pains to hide that fact. “I can never forget it.” His life changed that day on Naboo as irrevocably as hers did. Clawing back from his defeat to Kenobi has been the work of decades. Progress has come in fits and starts, and Maul knows he is stalled out yet again. This isn’t as bad at Lotho Minor, but he’s still in a rut.

  
  
“I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t mean to make light of your circumstances—“

  
  
“I know you mean well. You always mean well. Allow me?” He asks permission this time as he lifts his hand towards her face.

  
  
She hesitates.

“Please,” he requests. And why did he say that? He commands, he doesn’t grovel. A Sith can take whatever he wants.

But it works. “Alright,” she whispers.

  
  
Lightly, carefully, he cups her ruined cheek as her eyes lift to his. They are filled with trepidation. She’s so vulnerable. In this and so many other ways. It makes her pathetic and yet it still draws him in.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he coaxes.

She makes no reply. She just stares.

He doesn’t remove his hand. Her scars feel bumpy and irregular beneath his touch, but also soft and warm. They are close as they stand in the strange embrace that is literally one arm’s length. “One side is beauty,” he muses, “the other is pain. It’s beautiful. Your face is the universe . . . Dark and Light.”

  
  
“I don’t know what that means—“

  
  
“I see your Light shining through, but the Dark streak is written across your face.”

  
  
“You’re s-scaring me,” she sputters.

  
  
“There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  
  
“You’re scaring m-me—“

  
  
He drops his hand. Then, he steps back. There’s no victory to be found in quashing this girl, he knows. The real challenge will be drawing her out. So, he tells her, “Sit down,” as he returns to his chair at his desk. 

  
  
She looks considerably more comfortable now that he’s across the room.

  
  
“That scar saved you from sex work,” he observes. 

  
  
“I guess that’s one benefit.”

  
  
He smirks. “You might be the first virgin ever in one of my whorehouses.”

  
  
Her eyes widen. “How did you—“

  
  
“You just told me. But I knew anyway.”

  
  
“It shows?” She is horrified.

  
  
“Yes. In a good way.”

  
  
“Oh.” Now, she’s really flustered.

He’s amused. He waves a hand to dismiss her dismay. “It is no concern of mine.” He has no intent to seduce her. Her virtue is safe with him for that and other reasons.

She nods and then blurts out, “What is the Light? You said that you see Light in me. What does that mean?”

  
  
“Uhhmmm, yes . . . “ He gives her an appraising look. “You’re full of Light. It is impossible not to see. It blinds my mind’s eye.”

  
  
“I don’t understand.”

  
  
“The Light is the Force.”

  
  
“But I don’t have the Force.” She frowns.

  
  
“Everyone alive has the Force,” he corrects her. “Life creates it and makes it grow. In turn, the Force sustains life.” It’s how Jedi healers mended broken bodies traditional medicine could not fix. And how he himself kept alive when his body was cleaved in two. “Only a select few of us can actually sense the Force and direct it. For someone like me, the Force both controls my actions and obeys my commands.”

  
  
“I see,” she says weakly. “It’s Jedi stuff . . .”

“Worried Darth Vader will leap out of the woodwork to kill you?” he teases.

“A little,” she admits.

“I’ll protect you,” he promises.

And actually, she doesn’t look very reassured. Does she not think he can take Vader? Because he can. Easily. But he chalks up her doubt to ignorance then decides to teach her more of the great mystery of the universe.

  
  
“The Force is a spectrum that ranges from Light to Dark,” he continues. “How someone in the Light connects with the Force and uses the Force is different from someone on the Dark Side. Historically, the Jedi used the Light and the Sith wielded the Dark. But the distinctions are far more blurred than many would like to believe.” 

He can see that he has gotten too abstract for her too fast. This little Twi’lek was not raised to believe in the Force and steeped in the lore of the Jedi and the Sith. This is all very unfamiliar to her. 

He tries to simplify it. “The Light is the morally good side. It’s the idealistic, hopeful, compassionate side. Find any prison or slum, and you will find agents of the Light ministering there. Social workers, teachers, the religious, the do-gooders among us. They are compelled to try to help, to forgive life’s worst examples, to save souls, and soothe hurts. It's a fool's errand, for sin persists. But hope springs eternal for those in the Light.” He meets her eyes and adds, “Like you,” for emphasis.

“I see.”

Does she? Does she really? “At times, you pity me even if you fear me. Your compassion gives you empathy. It’s why you want to like me despite all you know about me.”

  
  
“How did you—“

  
  
“Your thoughts betray you.”

  
  
“Oh.” She looks askance at him. “You can read my mind?”

“Sometimes, not always,” he admits. Only when her emotions bloom to intensity do they leach out in the Force.

“So . . . what does it mean to be Dark?” she asks, looking almost afraid to ask. “Is that the morally bad side?”

He shrugs. “The Dark Side has no morals. It only has desires. Darkness is the triumph of emotion. It embraces the full range of experience from love to hate, from anger to sorrow, from pride to shame, from power to helplessness.” It’s best understood as a comparison, he thinks. So, he explains: “Historically, the Jedi served the Light and the Sith wielded Darkness. The two traditions were a counterpoint to one another. The coexisted as a dichotomy.”

“Light and Dark?” she breathes.

“Correct. The Jedi commune with the Light Side of the Force through calm patience and understanding. The Sith do not cultivate calm, instead we encourage passion. We draw our power from our feelings. Our goals are different as well. The Jedi prize self-sacrifice and community. They put the needs others before their own. We Sith prize power and ambition. We extol the virtues of the individual. And, of course, our means are not the same. Occasionally, the Light is righteous. But usually, it is peaceful and defensive. We Sith are the aggressive ones. We can be obsessive and relentless.” He cocks his head at her, realizing that this lengthy speech is a lot to take in. “Is any of this making sense?”

“The Sith?” She squints at him. “The Sith are ancient history. From the days of the early Republic and the Mandalorian wars. That’s thousands and thousands of years ago. How is any of this relevant now?”

He smiles indulgently at her ignorance. “We’re still around. We are few, but we endure. Darkness never dies.”

“W-We?” she gulps.

“Yes, we,” he confirms. Then, he proclaims with pride, “I am a Sith, like my father before me.” It’s not really a secret any longer, even if it’s not common knowledge. Several of his men know, even if they don’t know the whole story. You can’t chase Jedi throughout the galaxy without having people overhear a thing or two accidentally.

“You’re a S-Sith,” she stammers, looking to him in confusion. “But I thought you had the Force because your mother was a witch.”

“She was.”

“But you’re also an evil Jedi guy?”

He chuckles at this description. “Something like that.” He’s given her sufficient disclosure for tonight. Now, he wants to give her time to process the information. He wants Rhea to know who he is. He doesn’t exactly know why that feels so important. It just does. 

So, he dismisses her, “That will be all.”

“Yes, S-Sir. Goodnight, Sir.”

She withdraws, and now he is back to mulling over his meeting with Plagueis. He should have known better than to meet with that old fossil. The man is as devious as they come. And so, naturally, he had appeared with a proposal. Initially, he had rejected it out of hand. But now he finds himself considering it. Because more and more, he feels in quiet crisis. His growing infatuation with his housemaid is probably just the latest symptom of his boredom and frustration.

Is this just the typical ennui of being in his middle years? Or is it caused by his general dissatisfaction with how life has turned out? Day in, day out, he plots his criminal empire and yet he is strangely aimless about it. His mind is elsewhere, preoccupied with the problems that keep him up at night. He’s fearful that the search for Kenobi will be forever illusive. Worried too that he will never reconcile with his father. Terrified that all there is will be the here-and-now that is disappointing. He needs a change. A big change. But what? What will give him the challenge he needs and the satisfaction he craves? 

He’s not about to abandon his quest for Kenobi, but should he be rethinking Crimson Dawn? Is it time to join old Darth Plagueis on his strangely idealistic crusade for revenge? Plagueis wants another civil war. He’s looking to the same playbook that toppled the Republic to destabilize the Empire. But if anyone can pull it off, it’s the crippled, zombie Muun Sith. Lord Sidious might get the credit for the Empire now, but Maul knows better. Darth Plagueis was the mastermind behind the scenes while his Apprentice Senator-turned-Chancellor was merely the implementer. And now, Plagueis wants to recruit him play his Master’s role as the public face of his new machinations. 

It’s an intriguing possibility. First and foremost, it would give him something new to do. Something big to do. Something that shapes history and merits daring. Something more befitting his talents than spice and vice. Plus, it would draw out Vader for sure. 

But will it work? Is there enough discontent brewing for a war? Even Maul can see that the Empire can be a bit heavy handed at times. But have things gotten bad enough that the people are ready to revolt? Sheev Palpatine takes pains to blame the excesses on that Jedi pretender who calls himself Darth Vader. It insulates him from tyrant status. But his Master is responsible for all those decisions. Maul has no doubt that his father is as much a control freak as ever. 

But will the leftwing opposition Senators from liberal pro-Republic Core systems actually organize a revolt? Darth Plagueis thinks they will. In fact, he’s covertly funding their plans for revolution. It’s a risky, bold bet for so many reasons. But still . . . Maul keeps considering it. 

And that’s why the next evening, when Rhea arrives to bring him his dinner, he once more orders her to sit down. Then, he asks, “What do you think of the Empire?” He’s curious what the average citizen thinks of the prospect of a rebellion.

“What do you mean, Sir?” She looks wary. Like this is a trick question.

He rephrases. “Are you happy with its leadership?“

“With Senator Palpatine? Well, yes. Of course.”

“Why?”

“He saved the galaxy after the war.”

The little housemaid acts like this truth is self-evident. When, in fact, it’s not a truth at all. But Maul does not contradict her. As a Sith, he respects his Master’s sleight of hand. How he constantly manages to position himself as the hero and not the villain is impressive. Sheev Palpatine came out of the war he caused more popular than ever. But a lot of time has passed since then.

So, he prods. “Do you think the Emperor runs things well?”

Rhea considers. “Well, the Empire cracks down a lot. Maybe too much here and there . . . but that’s understandable.”

Ah, here’s the real truth. “Tell me more.”

She is self-effacing now. “Sir, I’m not a very political person—”

“Tell me more,” he overrides her caveats. “I want to know your opinions.”

“Alright,” she relents. “Well, the Clone Wars broke out when there was too much dissent, right? No one wants that again. So if the Empire gets a little too controlling now and then, it’s because no one wants history to repeat itself.”

“So you are fine with restricting the press and civil liberties? You are amendable to occupied systems?“

“I guess yes, in the right circumstances. The Old Republic was so decentralized, so disorganized, and corrupt. Democracy might work on a local system level, but it’s no way to run the galaxy. It’s too inefficient.”

“Keep going,” he presses.

“We have the best of both worlds under the Empire, don’t we? We have the Emperor as a strong and tested leader and we have the Imperial Senate to make sure all systems get a voice. It’s a good compromise.”

“So you think the Chandrilan Senator— “

“Mothma, right?“

“Yes. You know her name?“ He’s surprised.

“Everyone knows her name. She’s the one who wants to turn back the clock.”

“So her ideas have no appeal?“

“Oh, no. They sound great. I just don’t think they will work. We’re already proven that, right?”

“Indeed.” Little Rhea, it seems, is far from ready to rebel against the Empire. But is that because she fears war more than she fears the excesses of Imperial power?

“Will there be anything else, Sir?”

Wait--is she anxious to leave him? Maul isn’t ready to relinquish her yet. He probes a little deeper now. He’s curious how she will react. He wants to know how strong her loyalty is for Lord Sidious. Just how hard will it be to stoke popular discontent?

“What if I told you that Emperor Palpatine is not who he seems,” Maul begins.

The little Twi’lek frowns. “You mean like he’s corrupt? Or is this some personal scandal?”

“It’s more fundamental than that.” He leans forward in his chair. “What if I told you that Sheev Palpatine destroyed the Republic intentionally.”

She misunderstands, thinking he’s alluding to a longstanding complaint by his Master’s opposition—that Senator Palpatine remained in power too long by flouting the Republic constitution. He’s not surprised when his housemaid does not share this opinion. 

“Sir, people voted for him to remain as Chancellor during the war. Those were unprecedented times and we needed continuity of leadership. There was broad consensus for him to remain in the position.”

“Maybe so, but he used the war to consolidate and grow his power. Then, he seized the throne.” That’s the real story, but few know it.

“No,” Rhea counters loyally. “Palpatine was elected time and time again. He became Emperor only after the government broke down. The Jedi tried to assassinate him because he wanted to end the war. The Jedi claimed to be keepers of the peace, but they were the warmongers all along. The war was mostly their institutional vendetta against Dooku. It was the Jedi Order versus a former Jedi, and they dragged all the rest of us into it. It tore the galaxy apart.”

As she continues, it’s clear that his housemaid is a political moderate. She spouts the prevailing conventional wisdom. “Sheev Palpatine has his problems, I suppose, but he’s better than the alternative. The Republic was great when it worked, but it stopped working long before it fell. It was time to move on.”

“So, you wouldn’t be concerned if the Emperor’s motives were less than pure?” he quizzes.

She shrugs. “He’s been a public servant for decades. He’s a known quantity. And so what if he was ambitious? Aren’t all politicians ambitious?”

“You like him.” It’s a point in her favor, although Rhea doesn’t know it. Maul suppresses a smile.

“He’s fine. Look, he’s pretty old. He won’t be Emperor forever. He’ll probably be a transitional figure who holds the galaxy together until we are unified enough to try some form of democracy again.”

“You don’t expect Darth Vader to take over?”

She makes a face. “Let’s hope not.”

“Why?”

“Vader goes too far. He’s the one who Mothma should be opposing. She should be lobbying the Emperor to replace Vader.”

Interesting. “So the Emperor is the good cop and Vader is the bad cop?”

“Something like that. Sir, Palpatine is our leader . . . “

“You keep making excuses for him.”

She mutters, “It’s hard to please everyone . . . “

“There you go again. You have a lot of goodwill for our Emperor.”

“Yes, I guess,” she admits. “Is that wrong?”

“No.” Not at all. But still, he wants to know, “What would it take to undo that loyalty?”

“I don’t know . . .”

He stands now and crosses the room. He takes up position with arms crossed looking down on her. “What if I told you that the Emperor is my father?” He’s taking a calculated risk as he reveals this. But, as always, something about this young woman makes him want to unburden his past.

Her jaw drops. “Your father?” She recoils at the news. She raises a hand to her mouth and whispers again in horror, “Your f-father? Oh, Sir . . .”

“It’s true.”

Maul waits for the implications to sink in. It doesn’t take long. “You’re saying the Emperor is the man who destroyed this world?” she ventures weakly.

“Yes. He killed my brother and made sure my mother died too.”

Rhea is confused and disbelieving. “But Senator Palpatine was on the side of the Republic.”

“He’s only ever on his own side. Trust me on that. Little one, there’s so much you don’t know. The history books have most of the Clone Wars wrong.”

“But he’s fully human and you’re Zabrak—“

“I was adopted. Well, mostly I was stolen. Sheev Palpatine came here to Dathomir to learn from my mother. She was the leader of the Nightsister Coven. It made her the queen witch of the Force at the time.”

Rhea looks to him blankly. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Mother wasn’t Sith. Her tradition predated the Sith. She was interested in sorcery rather than in galactic domination.” He looks away as he recalls aloud, “She had such a knowledge of the Force. None here ever came close to rivaling her. My father sensed her power and sought her out. He promised to trade the secrets of the Sith for the secrets of the Nightsisters. He wanted to learn the path to immortality. He did learn some of it before he left. But when he left, he took me with him.”

“How terrible!” she reacts.

“I was young. Ten at the time. An untrained child. Still, my father knew a potential rival when he saw one. He might have killed me. Instead, he reared me for his own.” All these years later, Maul is still not sure which was the better outcome in the end.

“Your mother must have been frantic.”

“Mother was never frantic. She was mad.” He grunts as he remembers, “Hell hath no fury like an angry Mother witch. Lord Sidious made an enemy that day. A powerful enemy.”

“She didn’t demand you back?”

“Mother plotted and schemed to no avail. Nightsisters traditionally did not leave Dathomir. But she cursed my father with her considerable powers.” Knowing Mother, she cast every spell she knew against Darth Sidious.

“Oh.”

He explains, “Ours was a matrilineal world. Women dominated. So I think some part of Mother was amendable to my leaving so that I would have a chance to fulfill my potential. Had my father asked for me, I think she might have surrendered me over. But he did not ask, and she hated him for that.”

Rhea is still connecting the dots. “So you’re telling me that the Emperor is a Sith like you? That Sheev Palpatine uses the Force?”

“Yes. He is formidable. I wish I had learned more from him . . .” His training was far from complete when he lost to Kenobi. There was so much left for his father to show him.

“You said once that Darth Vader replaced you—that he is the Crown Prince now—“

“Vader is the current Sith Apprentice, like Count Dooku before him.”

“And before that?” she asks.

“Me,” he confirms. “I was the original Apprentice, groomed from a tender age to inherit the galaxy.”

She is silent for a long moment before she speaks again. She’s impressed. “You really are Darth Maul. And you’re more than just a prince--you’re the son of the Emperor.”

He can’t keep the wistful tone from his voice. “I was the heir,” he acknowledges, “but no longer. I’m just Maul now.” A crime lord with a lightsaber. Just a lot of wasted potential.

His little housemaid sees right through him. “But you want to be Darth Maul again, don’t you?” she whispers.

He sighs and turns away. “For that, I must earn my father’s respect back and kill Darth Vader.”

“Vader’s a horrible man.”

“I don’t care what he’s like. He stands between me and my father and for that he must die.” Maul’s voice is as hard as his resolve on this point.

Little Rhea is still processing the reveal of his past. “You really weren’t raised for crime. You were raised to rule. To command armies . . . to head an Empire . . . ”

“Yes.” Instead, he is a criminal who yearns to be more. And so, he shares yet another confidence. This time, it’s less calculated and more of an impulse. _Control your urges_ , he thinks as he nonetheless plows ahead with more reckless disclosure. “That man who was here last week . . . ”

“Lord Pl . . .”

“Plagueis,” he supplies the name. “He is my father’s Sith Master . . . his mentor in the Force. My father thinks he killed him—or he says he killed him--but Darth Plagueis lives.”

Rhea meets his eyes. “You called him the most dangerous man in the galaxy.”

“That might be an understatement. Lord Plagueis taught my father most everything he knows. My father lived in awe of his own Master.”

“Then why did he try to kill him?”

“Because that is the way of the Sith. When the Master becomes too feeble or the Apprentice eclipses him, the Apprentice rises up to slay him and take his place.”

“And then he is the Master,” she completes the thought. Rhea might be poorly educated, but she’s plenty sharp, he’s noticed. She doesn’t miss a beat now as she lifts concerned eyes to his. “Sir, what does Lord Plagueis want with you?”

“I contacted him this time. For help finding Kenobi.” He shakes his head and makes a face of frustration. “Plagueis knows more than he’s letting on, but he refused to divulge any leads on the Jedi. Instead, he made me a proposal.” She is listening closely as he confides, “He wants me to organize a rebellion against the Empire. He wants me to help him overthrow my father.”

It’s a step he has never before contemplated. For in all his endeavors to attract his father’s attention, never once has he set himself up in opposition to Lord Sidious. He has always been the prodigal son seeking an invitation to come home. Never the upstart usurper, never the murderous Apprentice. Just a faithful adherent looking for respect and validation and a path back to power. But maybe, Maul thinks, that’s been the wrong tactic all along. Perhaps it’s time to force his Father and Vader to contend with him. And what better ally for the task than the ultra-sly Darth Plagueis the Wise?

Rhea says nothing for a long moment. Then, she asks point blank. “Are you going to do it? Are you going to start another war?”

He tells the truth. “I don’t know.” He can’t decide.


	6. chapter 6

“Dead man in the formal office,” Mrs. Nettles reports as she pokes her head in through the kitchen door.

“I’ll handle it,” Marisol volunteers. She gets up from the table where she and Rhea are drinking caf.

“Rhea will do it,” the housekeeper preempts her. “You go meet the supply shipment. The ship’s touching down now. Make sure the delivery guys don’t drop the eggs like last time. I’m not paying for cracked eggs.”

“Alright,” Marisol agrees. “How bad’s the mess? Was it the choke, the sword, or a blaster?”

“Blaster. The guy pulled a gun on Maul. Got killed with his own weapon,” the harassed looking housekeeper sighs.

“Idiot,” Marisol snorts. She turns to Rhea. “Be sure to use the spray cleaner in the red bottle if there’s carbon scoring. Gets it out every time. And blot, don’t rub, with the blood. Otherwise, you’ll smear it in.”

“Got it,” Rhea gulps. Just how gory is the mess she’s about to clean up?

“Hurry up,” gruff Mrs. Nettles harrumphs. “He has another visitor coming soon. I don’t want him arriving when the office is still a mess from what the boss did to the last guy.”

“On it.” Rhea jumps up. She hurries to retrieve the caddy with the carpet and upholstery cleaner and the disinfectant. Then she heads for the villa’s public rooms, passing slow-moving Mrs. Nettles who is limping to the foyer to welcome the next guest.

Rhea takes a deep breath before she slips into Maul’s formal office. She’s worried for what she will find even though it’s not like she hasn’t seen casual violence before. In the gang, men compete to show their mettle and often it is through bloodletting. Usually, these episodes are accompanied by macho fanfare. There are hollered insults and loud boasts as preamble. Maybe a shove or two. Plenty of curses in various languages besides Basic, and, always, the brandishing of weapons as lead up. But not from Maul. There is a disarming coolness to the man. Never once has Rhea heard him raise his voice. He’s habitually calm, efficient, and understated about his work. Probably, she surmises, because he has nothing to prove.

True to form, Maul is conferring with a lieutenant when she enters. They both seem completely oblivious to the dead man being rolled into a body bag in the center of the room. Rhea herself looks away. Then, she peers woefully at the circular bloodstain on the carpet and the splattered blood droplets that surround it. Yuck. She makes a face. But mindful of Mrs. Nettles waiting down the hall, Rhea dons a pair of gloves and kneels down to get to work lest she get scolded for dawdling.

The lieutenant leaves. Now, it’s just Maul, the men attending to the body, and herself.

Rhea vigorously attends to her work, trying not to think of the death that necessitated it. She’s dabbing at the big stain when someone walks over to loom above her. There are a pair of shiny boots in front of her nose. 

Rhea looks up. It’s Maul. That’s unexpected. Whoever this next visitor is, Maul covered his robot legs for him. She glances back down at the expensive boots, wondering if the next guy to arrive will be the tall, disfigured man she met before. Darth Plagueis . . . the Sith Master who taught the Emperor . . . the most dangerous man in the galaxy.

Maul is annoyed with her. “Don’t look away. Face your fears,” he commands. Then, he reaches a gauntleted hand down to her. 

Rhea strips off her bloody glove and dutifully accepts his grip. Maul unceremoniously hauls her to her feet. Then, he leads her by the hand to where the dead man now lies zipped in a lumpy sack by the door. 

“Show her,” Maul orders to his men. 

One obliges by unzipping the body bag partway. It reveals that the dead man is a Rodian. His alien face is a mask of shock and pain. He died horribly from a blaster shot to the chest that left an enormous gaping flashburn.

Rhea instinctively shuts her eyes. Maybe that’s childish, but the aftermath of violence is upsetting. It brings up memories of war and her dead mother and sister. 

“Look,” Maul commands to her. “This is what I do. This is who I am.” He nods to the two men. “Get him out of here.”

“Right, Boss.” The two men heft the body and exit the room as Maul turns back to her. He’s expecting a reaction. 

Rhea searches for something diplomatic to say. “I’m sure it was merited, Sir.”

“He pulled a gun on me. It was self-defense. Not that it matters. I kill whom I wish.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I could have stunned him. I could have knocked him out. Instead, I killed him. Deadly force attempted requires deadly force in return.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“This is what I do.” 

Yes, she thinks, everyone knows that. Maybe he wants her to be shocked and aghast, but she’s not. She might be relatively new to the villa staff, but she’s been in the gang long enough to know how Maul operates. She accepts it for what it is, even if she doesn’t like it.

When she doesn’t respond, Maul reiterates, “This is who I am. I’m a criminal and a killer.”

He sounds proud. Is he trying to scare her? He pops off on these tirades often enough that she’s beginning to suspect they are more defensive than aggressive. Like he needs affirmation. So she affirms, “Yes, Sir,” as meekly as possible. 

It’s the wrong thing to say. Does the Force reveal she is placating him? Because now, he’s angry. Maul grabs roughly for her upper arm and jerks her forward. He touched her lekku once, but never has he manhandled her. Suddenly, Rhea is truly scared. 

He hisses, “I am a killer!” in her face. “What do you have to say to that??”

Looking into his bloodshot yellow eyes, she risks speaking truth to power. Rhea responds quietly. “I think you could be so much more.” And so does he, she knows.

Maul loosens his grip now and steps back. “Say it again.”

Awkwardly, she repeats, “I think you could be so much more.” She’s sheepish and afraid, so the words end on an up note, almost like a question.

Just then the whine of ion engines fills the air. The second visitor is here. Maul disengages. “Clean up that mess,” he orders curtly.

Relieved Rhea gets back on her knees hurriedly scrubbing away. She’s still working when Mrs. Nettles appears minutes later with the second visitor. The housekeeper shoots Rhea a disapproving look as she presents Darth Plagueis. The tall man with a face worse than hers limps in wearing the same stately black cloak as last time.

This is the most dangerous man in the galaxy . . . who Rhea now knows seeks to plot a war with her boss. A war to depose Maul’s father, who rather improbably has turned out to be the Emperor and a Sith like in the old history books. It’s a fantastical story and yet she believes it. Because no matter how incredible it sounds, it explains a lot of things about Maul.

Mrs. Nettles is dismissed while overlooked Rhea finishes up. That means she’s present when Maul begins trading insults with his latest visitor. 

“Lord Maul,” the tall man nods his perfunctory greeting. Apparently, verbal standoffs are how he and Maul commence their meetings. The visitor looks amused as he purrs, “You’re still alive and well, I see. Are there no brave men left in the universe? Why hasn’t someone killed you yet?” 

“Someone just tried,” Maul brags. He gestures to where Rhea works on her hands and knees. “Sorry about the mess.” 

“Ah, yes, I recall your charming little wounded Cinderella.” Lord Plagueis addresses her now. “My dear, you really should come work for me instead. Go board my ship and I will take you away from this den of thieves. I promise there are no bloodstains on my carpets. So uncivilized,” he chides Maul. “Really,” he complains, “must you play the role of galactic gangster so convincingly?”

“She stays here,” Crimson Dawn’s boss growls. “If you want a Twi’lek whore, I can get you real beauty. Not like that one.” He cracks a sneering, leering smile. “I’ll even charge you wholesale as a professional courtesy.”

Lord Plagueis responds with a knowing look. “Maul, my boy, you and I both know this one’s a beauty. I’m pleased, actually. She’s a sign that your power is maturing. The Darker you become, the more you will be drawn to the Light.”

“I am immune to the Light,” Maul proclaims stiffly.

The visitor ignores him. “Go climb aboard and wait for me,” he tells Rhea with a sly wink. 

She looks up nervously to Maul, unsure how to handle this.

“Hands off, Plagueis.” Maul’s voice is true menace now. “She stays.”

“Are you always this easy to bait?” the elder Sith wonders aloud. “I hope not. Lord Maul, someone really should kill you and put you out of your existential misery. You’re giving the Sith a bad name with all this common villainy.”

“Someone almost did kill me long ago.”

“Pity that Jedi didn’t succeed.”

“I was quite beside myself about it,” Maul smirks. He turns the tables now. “How come you’re not dead?” Maul crosses his arms and leans back against his big desk. Incredibly, he looks rather relaxed. Like shooting the Rhodian as lead up to this Sith summit meeting helped to prepare him.

“Oh, I’ll never be dead. You and the rest of the galaxy are going to have to learn to live with me.” The old Sith Master cocks his head at his host and drawls, “Did you stage this morning’s bloody tableaux to impress me? Is this your way of demonstrating your commitment to your life of spice?”

Maul is indignant. “I didn’t choose this life.”

“You choose it every day. You fool!” Darth Plagueis hisses. His censure makes listening Rhea flinch. “Men like us are meant to influence events. Not to watch from the sidelines, wasting your potential.”

“That’s a terrible recruitment speech,” Maul retorts. Then he growls at her, “That will be all.”

“I’m almost done,” she mutters.

“Leave it and go. It’s just a bloodstain. Plagueis here is not as squeamish as he pretends. His body count far exceeds mine.”

“Maul, you flatter me,” the visitor chuckles as Rhea gathers up her supplies and exits fast. She’s relieved until she gets to the kitchen and finds Mrs. Nettles waiting for her with arms crossed and a scowling face. The housekeeper is not pleased.

Rhea gets chewed out. Then Marisol helps her finish cleaning up the remaining mess once the formal office is vacant. The rest of the day is routine. That’s a good thing because Rhea is preoccupied. She hadn’t realized that Maul’s choice about helping Darth Plagueis would become ripe quite so soon. It’s none of her business, of course. Whatever Maul decides, Rhea will have to support it as a member of the gang. But another war . . . just the thought of it is distressing.

And that’s why Rhea finds herself in the garden later that night after she drops off Maul’s dinner tray. She’s staring at the remains of the genocide on Dathomir that Maul says was caused by his own father, Emperor Palpatine. Such a twisted, complicated tale Maul has told her of his past. Rhea isn’t sure what to make of it. Clearly, the Sith have very different family values than the rest of the galaxy.

And Maul? With his depressive rants, penchant for violence, and fixation on revenge . . . Rhea can’t decide if he is the victim or the villain. Or maybe, both. Other men might aspire to his level of criminal success, but Crimson Dawn’s boss seems indifferent to it at best. Mostly, Maul strikes her as dissatisfied. Miserable, even. She wonders again now why he seeks her out as a confidante. He seems to seek her approval at times. Other times, he wants her to reject him. To condemn him. It’s almost like he says too much and then feels compelled to sabotage whatever rapport he’s built between them.

Someone is approaching. It’s Maul, of course. His fancy boots are off. She hears the _tap, tap_ of his metal legs on the stone walkway that leads from the villa to where she stands at the edge of the garden. This time, Rhea doesn’t turn around. Because if they are going to talk about his new war, she wants to do it facing the aftermath of the old war he says he laid the groundwork for back when he was the Emperor’s Apprentice.

“Hello, little one.”

“Sir.”

He pulls up to her shoulder. He’s on her scarred side, she notices. Well, good. Because if the overgrown, rusty droid wreckage across the fence is a reminder of the physical cost of the war, then her mangled face can represent the personal loss. Is he getting this through the Force? Can he read her mind and tell how distressing the prospect of a new war is for her?

“I knew I’d find you here tonight.” Maul speaks softly, as always. His default demeanor is deceptively mild. Almost casual and offhand. But nothing this man does is accidental, she suspects. The more she interacts with him, the more complex, controlling, and strangely lost he seems. And despite it all, Rhea likes him . . . but maybe that’s because he calls her pretty and seems fine with her scar that repulses everyone else.

But still . . . she’s too unsettled for one of their intense conversations tonight. “Shouldn’t you be eating your dinner, Sir?” That’s her way of telling him to go away.

“Shouldn’t you be eating yours in the kitchen now?” he counters.

She’s too keyed up to eat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I.”

They stand there in mutual silence for a bit. It’s not awkward or tense, but it’s not comfortable either. Something about this man gets Rhea’s heart racing. If nothing else, Maul is exciting. The man is very hard to predict. She never knows whether she’s going to get the pensive, maudlin loner seeking company or the ruthless, violent crime boss.

Tonight, he’s clearly in the mood to talk. “You’re upset. I can sense it. Are you sad over that Rhodian I killed?”

“You are a little too proud of that murder,” she tells him boldly.

“That wasn’t murder. It was self-defense.”

“Was that a first?” Her comment comes out tartly, but she doesn’t immediately apologize. Tonight, Rhea wishes Maul would go away and leave her to her churning thoughts.

He slants yellow eyes her direction. “You are upset.” Maul doesn’t sound angry about her insolence. More like amused. He explains, “I get shot at fairly regularly. It comes with the job. It keeps me on my game.” He shrugs off the danger. “Only a man who stands for nothing has no enemies.”

Rhea just nods. Maybe if she waits him out, he will leave.

“So . . . was it a bad day in the kitchen? Did Mrs. Nettles dress you down?” he teases. He’s sardonic as he tries to coax a smile.

But Rhea is focused elsewhere. He’s not going to go away, she realizes. So, she turns to face Maul and demands, “If the Emperor is a Sith and he sought to collapse the Republic to seize power, then what was the point of the war? Count Dooku was a Separatist and yet you say he was Palpatine’s Apprentice? Doesn’t that put the Sith on both sides?” Her rush of words come out in a crescendo of ascending pitch. The war is an emotional issue for her. She cannot discuss it dispassionately.

“Yes.” Maul’s answer is as calm and self-possessed as ever. “It was all a ruse. The war was a pretext.” He meets her eyes steadily. She sees truth there. Candor.

Emboldened, she asks what she’s been wanting to know since Maul began alluding to his involvement. “Tell me all of it. Sir, I’d like to know the truth.” If Maul won’t leave, maybe she can get some answers out of him.

He considers. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Rhea bristles. “I think I have a right to know. My mother and my sister died in the war. Perhaps my father too.”

Again, Maul holds her gaze with those soulful, feral eyes. “Rhea, this knowledge is unsubstantiated and dangerous.”

“Is it any more dangerous than knowing who you are? Who you really are?” She looks away and mutters, “Or am I going to get the same treatment as the Rhodian?”

Maul’s offended. “How you malign me,” he snarls.

“Not really,” she dares answer back. “Not if I understand what it means to be a modern day Sith.”

Maul grunts and shoots her a look. He’s angry. But is he also . . . hurt?

“You’re a killer. Everyone knows that.” He bragged about it to her just this morning. 

“Yes!” Maul snaps back, “yes, I am!” He is stung. Inexplicably defensive as well. “When I kill, it is for a reason,” he informs her. “I am not a butcher, I am an architect of the future. We Sith choose the winners and the losers.”

Maul’s vehemence neatly quells her show of independence. Contrite Rhea hangs her head, “Yes, Sir.” But that show of deference doesn’t seem to please him either. Maybe there is no pleasing this irascible man.

“Look at me.” Maul steps closer now. If anything, his voice grows even softer. More intense. “I will make you a promise,” he rasps. “If ever I kill you, it will be instant. You will not suffer. You and I—we have suffered enough. I may be a killer, but I can be merciful about it.”

Rhea gulps. She doesn’t know what to make of that offer.

But he continues, “Little one, I will put a sword through you before you can begin to perceive it. Nothing will hurt. You won’t feel a thing.” His words come out as a threat, except the husky tone makes them bizarrely intimate. And he’s standing close, too close in her space. It makes his promise of execution seem like a hushed vow or a lover’s pledge. He’s absolutely sincere. It’s terrifying but strangely caring in a way.

Abruptly, Maul stalks to the garden’s edge. He swoops down to duck between the open fence rails and enters the wreckage filled pasture just beyond his compound. Then he turns and waits for her to do the same.

“Come.” He offers her his hand.

She hesitates.

“Come. You want to know the truth? I will tell you the truth as I perceive it.” He sees her eyes dart to the remains of the toppled Separatist tank behind him. “Nothing here will hurt you.”

He’s right, Rhea knows. Maul is the only dangerous thing left in that field. But he also has the answers she seeks. Perhaps she should be afraid of those answers. She certainly should be afraid of Maul. But in the moment, she is not.

So, Rhea too ducks between the fence rails and steps into the field of moldering ruins. Maul is still offering his hand. She takes it.

“Tell me everything,” she whispers as his fingers close around hers. His gloves are off and his red skin is not leathery like it appears. Instead, it is velvety soft. “Tell me everything.”

“I will.”

Hand in hand, she and Maul begin to wander through the countryside as he speaks of the galaxy’s hidden past. Rhea hears of a wide-ranging conspiracy that unfolded over decades, plotted and replotted as events warranted. While Maul himself was one of many important players, the key figure, of course, was his father. Emperor Palpatine, who Maul sometimes calls his Master, is the archvillain of the story.

Rhea hears about an army commissioned in secret with the ostensible blessing of the Jedi Order. In the years before those clone soldiers were ready for use, the Sith worked their crafty machinations. Rhea learns of regional tensions stoked amid the galaxy’s various competing sectors and rival species. Of economic disparities heightened and trade disputes maneuvered. All for the goals of sharpening conflicts, increasing mistrust, and promoting cynicism. These were the seeds of war, and they were sown far and wide. 

The Rim-based corporate systems formed the Trade Federation as an anti-Core, pro-business investment consortium. But all along, many of its members made their credits preparing munitions and supplies for the war they didn’t yet know was coming. These people invested enormous sums in mining and industrial projects supported by Republic taxation schemes and grants. Once those monies were invested and the facilities were up and running, Senator Palpatine made sure the legal framework that enabled those investments was revoked.

It provoked trade fights and tax disputes with local systems. A slew of resulting lawsuits clogged the courts. The many conflicts began to frame the key issues of the emerging Separatist movement: the role of private industry in system development, the many inequalities between the galaxy’s Core and the Rim worlds, taxation without proportional representation in the Senate, and tariff and trade policies that favored consumers rather than producers.

Overtime, the Trade Federation coalesced with the likeminded and similarly Palpatine-controlled Commerce Guild, Techno Union, Intergalactic Banking Clan, and the Corporate Alliance to form the Confederacy of Independent Systems. After much political turmoil and overheated rhetoric on both sides, the Confederate systems would ultimately secede from the Republic. From their base of support in the Rim, the Separatists commenced a bloody civil war to establish their independence.

But before that, the long corrupt Republic Senate was bought and sold with the deep pockets of the Sith. Senator Palpatine bartered favors and credits to pass legislation and grant strategic appointments. Ultimately, he got himself elected Chancellor when a minor trade dispute involving his home planet became a flashpoint for tensions with the increasingly militant Trade Federation.

That position as Chancellor was just what Darth Sidious, aka Sheev Palpatine, needed to implement his plans. He began legitimizing his authoritarian rule by arguing that the Senate corruption—which he both promoted and benefited from—hampered the constitutional powers of the head of the galactic assembly. Behind the scenes, Palpatine pressured his Senate allies to grant him extraordinary authority to deal with the Separatists, falsely claiming that he would rescind that control once the crisis was over. By that time, war had been officially declared, meaning Palpatine already had command over the military under the Republic constitution. It seemed logical to many to vest more authority in the Chancellor to create a strong executive leader during wartime. 

  
No one realized, of course, that they had just voted a Sith Lord dominion over the Republic. The context here is important, Maul tells Rhea. There hadn’t been a full-scale war since the founding of the Republic thousands of years ago. This was uncharted territory. People were panicking because the Republic was falling apart before their eyes. And not from an external invader as long feared, but from deep divisions within.

  
But there were still Jedi to contend with. As the war dragged on, powerful members of the Jedi High Council began to suspect the work of the Dark Side within the Republic. But the Sith were long gone—or so everyone thought. The Jedi were flummoxed for how to locate the phantom menace they sensed but could not locate. They were looking for a secret man, but we were out in the open, Maul says proudly. A Sith Master ran the Republic and his Apprentice ran the rebel Separatists. Either way the war went, the Sith would win. 

The Jedi stupidly played into Palpatine’s hands when they showed up to arrest him at his Senate office. That he was the longtime duly elected Senator from Naboo and the Chancellor of the Republic gave them no pause. The Jedi Order had finally discovered that Sheev Palpatine was the Sith Lord they sought and they took matters into their own hands. Unfortunately, their extra-constitutional antics badly misjudged Darth Sidious’ powers. Within hours, the Jedi leadership was either dead or on the run. 

  
For the Sith had waited a long time for this moment. Embedded within the brains of the clone army lay inhibitor chips that activated when Lord Sidious issued Order 66 denouncing all Jedi as enemies of the state. Throughout the galaxy, Jedi military commanders were slaughtered by their own clone troops. Darth Vader and others then executed the non-combatant Jedi in their Temples. Incredibly, there was no public outcry from the bold move, no show of support for the maligned Jedi Order. Why? Because by that time, the Jedi had squandered their goodwill from years of political meddling, warmongering, and smug hypocrisy.

  
With the Jedi decimated and both the Senate and the military firmly in his control, Palpatine declared the war over and named himself Emperor. To many, he was a hero. A time-tested statesman who narrowly escaped assassination for his willingness to stand up to the overbearing, arrogant Jedi.

  
“My father convinced people that he did his best to save the Republic, when in truth he destroyed it. Still, everyone believed in him. Most welcomed his assumption of full, permanent control,” Maul recalls. 

  
Rhea nods. “People like me.” People who didn’t know any better. And even if somehow the truth did manage to come out, few would believe it, Rhea knows. Because in this case the truth is stranger and more convoluted than any crackpot extremist holonet conspiracy theory.

“Where were you during all of this?” she asks. 

Maul doesn’t answer. 

Rhea takes the hint. She backs down from the question. “Forgive me for asking. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” Maul takes a moment to collect his thoughts. It’s a clear sign to Rhea that, at least for this portion of the tale, she’s getting a redacted version. And given how forthcoming Maul has been thus far, it can’t help but stoke her curiosity.

Maul speaks especially quietly and slowly now, choosing his words with care. Clearly, he is trying to tell her something hard. So, Rhea doesn’t press. She lets him take his time and tell as much or as little as he wants.

“I lost to Kenobi at the Invasion of Naboo before the real war even started. After that, I got marooned. I spent years on a wretched world that looked a lot like this.” He doesn’t say where. Maul just gestures to a junk pile of battle refuse near them. “It lasted over a decade and I didn’t even know it.” He shakes his head. “Maybe that was a good thing. Back then, I was . . . not right,” he finishes vaguely.

Rhea doesn’t say anything. She just waits for him to continue.

“Mother sent my brother to find me. She knew I wasn’t dead. She could still sense me in the Force. She knew I suffered and needed help.” He looks away now as the story becomes clipped and terse. “Savage brought me home. Mother healed me. She brought me back. I was . . . too Dark.”

Rhea doesn’t know what that means, and she’s afraid to ask.

“After that, Savage and I began dabbling in crime almost accidentally. We were looking for a way to fund my search for Kenobi and the perfect trap to lure him out. Crime was easy, but it was never the goal.” Maul looks to her again as he repeats, “Crime was never the goal. It was a means.”

Rhea nods. She understands. She didn’t want this life either.

“We fell in with a group of Mandalorian dissidents. Using them, Savage and I took over the Republic-allied Mandalore system.”

“You took over a planet?” She wasn’t expecting that.

“Uhmmm, yes. Kenobi had ties to Mandalore. He was close with their pacifist ruler. And as we expected, he came to her aide. But ultimately, he escaped after I killed her.”

“You took over a planet??” Maybe this shouldn’t shock her given all Maul has divulged. But somehow this news seems like the most fantastic part of the story so far.

Maul shrugs. “Mandalore was an easy world to manipulate. They had deep political divisions that I exploited. I do the same thing now with the Pikes and the Hutts. The technique always works.”

“So you fought on the side of the Separatists to seize Mandalore?” She’s still trying to understand.

“I fought for myself,” he corrects. “I had no interest in the war. I didn’t care about Mandalore. My goal was revenge. And . . . I was hoping to attract my Master’s notice as well. It worked, but we did not reconcile. Father killed Savage and then his forces followed me home to kill Mother as well.”

“He’s a horrible man,” Rhea grumbles.

“I tried one more time with Mandalore. It worked once to draw Kenobi out, so I tried again. The second attempt failed. It was right at the war’s end. Just as things came to fruition, Order 66 was issued and Kenobi disappeared. I’ve been chasing him ever since.”

“So you stayed a crime lord after that . . . “

Maul is glum. “These days, it’s what I do best.”

He gets back to talk of war. Of how Count Dooku’s former Jedi status gave him legitimacy as a public figure. Of how the Jedi generals’ scruples kept them from winning. And of how the clones proved to be far more effective soldiers than his Master originally expected. Listening to Maul, it’s clear that he was a keen observer of his father’s war strategy from afar. It’s like he watched the tide of galactic events with his nose pressed to the glass looking in. Maul was supposed to be one of the insiders, but he was relegated to spectator status.

Even the Jedi dismissed him, it seems. For Maul complains, “When I was on Mandalore, neither Kenobi nor his associates ever bothered to ask about my Master. They all knew I had been the Apprentice. Surely, they suspected I knew his secrets. But not once did they ever try to pump me for information.”

“Would you have told them?”

“No. But I would like to have been asked,” he grumbles.

“Would they have believed you anyway?”

“Probably not,” he concedes. “But I still would like to have been asked.”

The twilight is fading fast now as the remains of the day slip away. The shadows of the droid wreckage grow longer and longer. Nightfall is coming. “We should get back,” Rhea murmurs. “It’s getting dark.”

“All is Darkness here, little one. Can you not see that?”

Her concerns are more pragmatic. “Sir, I mean actually dark. I think I just tripped over some dead battle droid’s head.”

“Then let’s go back.” Again, he resumes talking as she picks her way through the field, listening in silence. Maul has so much to say. Rhea lets all the information wash over her as she attempts to process it.

This morning, she saw firsthand Maul’s violent personal handiwork. Tonight, she hears the details of the galactic-scale ambitions that he missed out on. Maul’s not angry about what his father did so much as he is disappointed that he missed out on participating. Rhea quickly perceives that Crimson Dawn’s boss sees the war as a lost opportunity and not a widescale tragedy, like she does. 

The fact that the war turns out to have been wholly unnecessary compounds her sense of personal loss. For on both sides, people died for ideals that never really mattered. The political disputes were a pretext and the conflicts were superficial at best. They were real, but they were solvable, she believes, were there not a constant background presence pressing for war. To hear Maul tell it, his father kept repositioning the main players for his own aims like pawns on a dejarik board. The utter waste of it all floors her. By the time they are back ducking beneath the fence to re-enter the compound, Rhea decides that she is beyond outraged.

“I don’t think I like your father,” she tells Maul. The words are mild but the emotion behind them is not. She is very upset.

He slants her a look. “Not a Sheev Palpatine fan any longer? You’ve changed your tune.”

“A man such as he is not fit to rule,” she condemns.

Maul takes issue with the point. “The question is never who should rule, it’s who gets to rule. Power is what matters, not merit.”

It’s a very Maul kind of statement. Now that Rhea understands how her boss was raised, she has the proper context for his ruthless perspective. But this time, she can’t help but notice that Maul’s words don’t come out with his usual condescension. They are more wistful than anything.

Tonight, the truth has made them both subdued. At her side, Maul looks more haunted than smug. He’s nowhere near as objective about the war as he pretends. Discussing it at length has stripped away his cynicism and anger to lay bare his hurt. It’s almost like they have changed places. For she began the conversation sad like he is now, but she has progressed to seething anger.

“I think I hate him,” she says of Emperor Palpatine. “Like I might really, truly hate him . . . “

Maul squeezes her hand she forgot he was holding. “There are days when I feel the same way,” he confesses.

“You should hate him.”

Maul looks away. “He’s my father.”

"He was terrible to you . . . and to everyone. You're going to do it, aren't you? You going to try to depose him by starting another war." Another war in which people like her get maimed and people like her family get killed. “That’s why Darth Plagueis was here today, right?”

Maul hedges. "I haven't decided yet.” He truly does look torn. “Do you think I should?”

Why is he looking to her for answers? “I don’t know,” Rhea gripes miserably. It’s not like she wants Emperor Palpatine in charge. But is it worth another war?

“He’s my father,” Maul repeats. “I rebelled a little now and then as a child, but I’ve never actually opposed him. I don’t know if I can,” he confesses.


	7. chapter 7

‘ _I went insane_.’ 

That’s not something you casually throw out there. The whole ‘ _I executed more than my share of Mandalorian leaders_ ’ is fine. So are statements like ‘ _I took over the Mandalore government not once but twice by manipulating their political factions._ ’ Those truths probably only add to Prince Darth Maul’s consequence in little Rhea’s eyes. And, hopefully, they help to offset the humiliating power bleeds that come with the ‘ _I lost to a Jedi in a duel_ ’ and the ‘ _My Master disowned me_ ’ disclosures she already knows. But he draws the line at ‘ _I went insane for about ten years on a junkyard world when I lived off bugs and pretty much became a cyborg bug myself when I convinced myself that spider leg prosthetics were a good idea_.’ No, the less said about that chapter in his life, the better. Everyone who knows the truth of how low he sunk is dead now anyway. He will forever love his mother and his brother for helping him when he needed it most. But they are long gone and there is no need to reveal to Rhea his personal secrets that died with them. 

It’s not just his deep humiliation and lasting insecurity that keeps him quiet. It’s his upbringing. For to be Sith is to cultivate an image of imperviousness. To be untouchable by the harshest conditions and the worst disappointments. It’s all a lie, of course. The Sith feel as much as anyone else. Maybe more so, since they are taught to revel in their emotions in order to channel them into power. But no one is supposed to know that. Superhuman stoicism and manly strength are as much a part of the Sith tradition as black cloaks and red lightsabers. Weakness is to be shunned.

  
  
Plus, as it is, he has probably confessed far too much to Rhea. And actually, it was a relief to unburden himself of the truth mostly only he knows. For there is a loneliness to a deep secret. Now that it has been shared, he feels better. If nothing else, the little-known history of the downfall of the Republic will not die with him.

Rhea’s a pretty safe risk, he judges. She’s a nobody who is a longtime member of his gang and now part of his personal household. She’s under his complete control and oversight. Besides, he can always kill her if he has to. Not that he wants to kill her. She’s far too nice to have around. But he draws the line at talking about Lotho Minor. ‘ _I went insane_ ’ is a phrase he’s never saying out loud. Even his mother and Savage never alluded to it. It was something unspoken they knew but refused to acknowledge. That’s how much they loved him. 

He has worried from time to time that awful mental instability might come back. That something else will trigger it and he will lose his grip on reality once again. For it is truly frightening how little he recalls of that extended period of his life. Darkness of that intensity is like a contagion you cannot resist. Like a whirlwind of emotions that overwhelms your better judgement. It’s a mania like no obsession he’s ever known. And once you slip into that mental place, it’s hard to pull back out. It took a powerful Mother Witch to salvage his sanity last time. 

  
  
It was her mother’s love that prompted her to sacrifice some of her power to save him. Father would never have done that. He would have put him down like a rabid dog. His Master would have considered it justifiable mercy. And that’s the curious thing about Dark power—no matter how Dark you become, there is always some small sliver of Light that remains. Old Plagueis would say that’s because Darkness cannot exist without the Light. His Master’s zombie undead mentor has lots of heretical ideas about balancing the Force. He himself rejects those ideas. But the fact remains that from Darkness, there can spring Light. And maybe, he has considered, Darkness can make you seek out the Light. Maybe that explains why lately he is so drawn to little Rhea. 

Plagueis saw it yet again when he was here. It earned him a lecture. “The Darker the Sith, the stronger his pull to the Light,” Plagueis had croaked at him. “For the Force defaults to balance in the universe and in an individual. That's why so often the strongest Jedi were tempted by the Dark Side and why the fiercest Sith were known to have unexpected, sometimes stunning moments of compassion.”

Compassion? Really?? Maul had just looked at him and drawled, “You need an Apprentice. Go waste those words on someone who’ll listen.”

Plagueis had smirked—even disfigured, the guy is masterful at smirking. “You’ll find out soon enough, Lord Maul,” he responded, “provided someone doesn’t kill you first. When finally you come into your potential and are truly strong in the Dark Side, you will shock yourself by doing something Jedi-like.”

“You insult me.” 

Plagueis ignored him and preached some more. “Those moments are not character flaws or crises of faith. They are the consequence of great power. For as natural and universal as the Force is, we Force users are an aberration. Be we Light Jedi or Dark Sith, we disturb the default grey stasis. We disrupt the status quo of balance, tipping it to one side or the other.”

Maul had rolled his eyes. “No wonder Father killed you. Let me guess, he was tired of your crackpot theories.”

Darth Plagueis the Wise was undeterred, naturally. The old guy loves to hear himself talk. “The trick is to find out just how far you can tip the balance without reprisal. This is an everchanging calculus, for there is a natural ebb and flow to the Force beyond what a single individual can control. The challenge for a Sith is to achieve great power but not to risk the greater balance. To wield Darkness and be dominant, but not to smother the Light in yourself or in the galaxy.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Maul had complained impatiently. “You’re overstaying your welcome, my Lord.”

“This is free advice, Lord Maul: if you wish to grow in Dark power, be sure to let in some Light.”

Whatever. That’s now how was raised. He was raised on Dark supremacy and Jedi-killing lore. It was good enough to make his father the first Sith Emperor in a thousand generations, so it’s good enough for him. 

Plagueis must have seen his deep skepticism because he abandoned the Force lessons and began lobbying hard for Maul to help kindle his nascent rebellion. “They need a leader to succeed,” Plagueis informed him. The terrifying Muun Sith Master who should be dead but isn’t had pointed a clawed finger at him. “That man is you, Darth Maul. Those idealistic fools will never succeed on their own. They need a Sith to kickstart their revolution.”

  
  
Maul had crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten that I’m a criminal?“ 

  
  
“You don’t have to be,“ Plagueis chided. “Hand it over to Xizor and move on. You’re smart enough to ingratiate yourself with the rebels. They need all the help they can get and they know it. And who better to teach them how to evade the authorities than a crime lord who made a career out of it? Surely your people know every slippery customs agent, off-the-record source of hyperfuel, and weapons dealer around.”

  
  
“Maybe so, but I don't care about the Republic,” Maul pointed out.

  
  
Plagueis was equally as candid. “Neither do I. I care about revenge.” 

  
  
That statement was calculated to appeal to him. Except the object of the revenge is wrong. Plagueis wants revenge on Lord Sidious, whereas he himself wants revenge on Kenobi. Well, maybe some part of him wants some payback against his Master. That would get his Master’s undivided attention. Moreover, it would draw out Vader for sure. And then, maybe he could kill the pretender fallen Jedi and reclaim his role. For that would be the ultimate goal—to impress his Master to accept him back home. The new war would just be a pretext to shake things up and kill Vader. To demonstrate that he can be an effective leader on the galaxy’s stage of power players.

  
  
But what would Plagueis’ role be in the final resolution? Because if you can’t kill the guy, you must deal with him. Plagueis’ own plan surely is to usurp Sidious. In that scenario, things get thorny fast. Because who’s number two? Where do he and Vader fit in the mix after Sidious is deposed? Maybe they would have to fight it out for who gets the job as Apprentice. Or maybe Plagueis would choose Vader as a public nod to continuity of leadership. Either way, it’s not an issue worth clarifying up front. Because no matter what Plagueis might promise, the man is not to be trusted. Very little of what the guy says can be taken at face value. 

Except for his lectures about the Force. That’s nerdy old Plagueis’ real agenda, Maul is sure of it. When pressed on the revenge point, the decrepit Muun had admitted to his secondary motive. “I care about the Force and the future of the Sith,” faux-pious Plagueis sniffed. That set him off on another longwinded tirade about how Darth Sidious will one day go too far and bait the Force into striking back at him. And then, the cause of Darkness will suffer. 

“Really?” Maul had called him on it. “Did Darth Vitiate go too far? Did Bane? Did Malgus? How about Revan and Malak?” He argued back the most obvious examples of badass Dark Lords who pushed the Sith to new legendary feats. They were heroes of the Dark Side for it.

He’s a true Sith, committed to the Shadow Force, and he refuses to entertain Plagueis’ foolishness about balance. It’s Sith-lite, in his opinion. An irrational attempt to impose unnecessary limits on one’s self. But the whole line of argument has him worried that Vader—the former Jedi Chosen One—will definitely get the top seed position in the battle for the Plagueis Apprentice role. 

And that’s the trap that worries him. That once more, a Sith Master will use him as a tool to achieve his ends, only to discard him rather than reward him afterwards. That he will organize a successful revolt and betray his father only to install Plagueis on the Imperial throne with that Jedi turncoat Vader as the Apprentice. 

It gives him pause. Is this really what he wants?

Still, he cannot deny that he is intrigued by Plagueis’ proposal. It’s a chance to get back in the action. To perhaps redeem himself in his father’s eyes or, alternatively, punish father for his treachery. 

Sure, Plagueis is playing him. Sith that he is, Maul respects the expert manipulation at work. That old Muun knows the trail on Kenobi long ago grew cold and his criminal activities yield little lasting contentment. It makes him ripe for the using. But depending on how things develop, there may be an opportunity to betray Plagueis to his Master. Maybe even to bait the rebels into a trap that will yield a major victory for the Empire and act as a deterrent for insurrection going forward. Maul would gladly choose Darth Sidious over Darth Plagueis. You always choose the devil you know over the devil you don’t. Especially when the devil is your own father.

But how would his father feel about open revolt? Would he respect the Sithness of it all? Or would he consider it a true threat? What does it mean to oppose his father even if he’s keeping his options open to betray Plagueis? This is new territory. For even during that awful confrontation on Mandalore, Maul suspected his father was testing him more than actually trying to kill him. Old school Sith that he is, Darth Sidious wants a strong son he can respect and rely upon. Spare the rod and spoil the Sith Apprentice were words his Master lived by. For his part, the fight on Mandalore was all about demonstrating to his father that he was back in fighting form and ready to be the Apprentice again. He never truly wanted to replace his father. But this time will be different. There is no way he can plot with Plagueis for a rebellion and pretend to be anything other than an upstart. 

It gives him pause. Is this really what he wants?

And what about Kenobi? He’s not ready to let that quest go. He will never be ready to forgo his revenge. The mission of killing Kenobi kept him going through the worst time of his life. It gave him focus and meaning when he had nothing else. Kenobi matters. But it has occurred to him that a rebellion against the Empire is the sort of cause a Jedi would love. Could Plagueis’ plot have the side benefit of drawing out Kenobi? Could this be the lure he has long sought? For surely, the Jedi will want revenge on his old Padawan Skywalker. High minded Kenobi won’t call it revenge, of course. He’ll call it justice. But that’s just semantics. Taking down the Empire seems like a very Kenobi cause.

Plagueis must know he is loath to take his focus off Kenobi because days later a ship lands and six Thyrsian Sith cult Sun Guards arrive with a bound alien captive in their midst. Intrigued, Maul leaves an important meeting to intercept the visitors on the landing pad. 

“With compliments of Lord Plagueis.” The lead guard thrusts a little shackled Sullustan woman wearing a green commercial flightsuit to her knees. Then, the guard tosses Maul her lightsaber. “Heard he found her on Tattooine.”

Interesting. This alien woman doesn’t fit the description the Tattooine Hutt gave him of the local Jedi sighting. “Bring her inside,” Maul orders thoughtfully.

The Sullustan Jedi woman turns out to be a merchant cargo pilot. She was a Republic squadron leader during the war who survived Order 66 because she eluded the clone pilots she thoroughly outclassed. Unlike the Padawans he has found in recent years, this woman is a fully trained Jedi Knight in her middle years. One of the few surviving Lightsiders fully reared in the Jedi cult. She knows who he is, too. 

“Darth Maul,” she greets him by name in heavily accented Basic once they are in the compound’s detention cell. “I thought you were dead.”

He’s pleased that she recognizes him. He brags, “I’m a hard man to kill.”

“So I see,” she nods. And is that a fellow warrior’s respect he’s sensing from her?

“You must be pretty hard to kill yourself,” he returns the compliment. “It’s not often I come across an adult survivor.”

She shoots him a look. “If you think I have information to give you on others, I don’t. I left the Jedi life behind years ago. I have no desire to be a martyr.”

The Force tells him she’s being sincere. Moreover, she’s in handcuffs in a cell, but she’s not afraid of him. The little Jedi woman looks him in the eye and seems to treat him as a kindred spirit. Instead of him asking the questions and making the threats, she’s doing all the talking. “Look at us. Two people trained as Force users in opposing ideologies. Now cut loose from our respective causes.”

His eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I am what the Council tried to prevent--a free agent with the Force. Ever since the years of the Jedi Civil War, the Council feared Force users they did not control. It’s why we trained children from their preschool years. It was important to indoctrinate them early so that they would not question the Jedi ways. Because to allow them too much of a normal life might make them chafe at the Jedi Code.”

He cocks his head at the woman. She’s very cynical, he thinks. He’s not sure he likes it. It’s not very Jedi-like. And in confrontations like this, you’re supposed to stick to your role and represent the team. “You know, I mostly find Padawans who cling to ways they barely remember. And yet you seem far less devout. Why is that?” He smirks, “Are you simply older and wiser?”

“The difference is I lived through the war. I was a peacekeeper sent to kill.”

“Meaning?”

“I was old enough to perceive the hypocrisy of the Order’s ways. I saw its shortcomings and its arrogance. We had become too detached from the everyday lives of the ordinary citizens we pretended to represent. At first, we were too political. Then, we became too military.” She makes a wistful face and sighs. “The Jedi needed major reform.”

“There’s nothing left to reform now,” he gloats.

She nods solemnly.

The acceptance in her eyes is disarming. Perplexed, he goads, “You’re not looking to recreate the glorious past?”

“At the end, it wasn’t very glorious. Maybe it never was very glorious.” The woman looks away and asks, “How about you? What do you do these days?” like this is some sort of conversation and not an interrogation.

But he finds himself answering truthfully. “I run a crime syndicate. Spice, booze, women, that sort of thing. We’re in fifteen systems now. All the major ones.” And does that sound defensive? Because he’s not defensive. Not at all.

The Jedi woman eyes him a moment before she concludes, “I guess we’ve both come down a bit from our pedestals.”

He says nothing. 

“It’s freeing in a way,” the Sullustan woman muses, “At first, it felt strange to be so adrift. I was used to the Order controlling my life choices until the war ended and the purge came.” She looks to him and raises a questioning eyebrow. “I don’t imagine that Sith Apprentices get to make many choices of their own either, eh?”

“No. No, we didn’t.”

“I was a little lost finding my way at first,” she admits. “Were you?”

“No.” Yes. He was insane.

His talkative captive crosses her arms and sits back on her bench. “So . . . are you going to sell me to the Empire?”

“It depends. I want to know about Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Want your revenge? You’re a little late. General Kenobi is probably dead.”

“He’s not dead.” He can’t be dead. Because killing Kenobi was his sole reason for living during those years on Lotho Minor.

“Well, I can’t help you. I don’t hang out with my Jedi brethren any longer. Haven’t seen a fellow Jedi since the end of the Republic. They’re bad company these days.” Again, the Force tells him she’s being truthful.

“How’d you get caught?” he wants to know.

“I‘m a cargo delivery pilot. I delivered a shipment of artwork to some Muun financier’s Rim villa and he turned out to be a Sith Lord. Who knew?” she snorts. “Wasn’t expecting that. Neither was he, I think.” She squints at him now. “How many of you guys are there? I thought there were supposed to only be two.”

“There are three of us currently and one pretender,” Maul answers.

“We didn’t really understand the Sith at all, did we? You were right under our noses all along . . .”

He’s impressed by her candor and self-awareness for the shortcomings of her cult. “You’re not the usual ex-Jedi,” he observes. He means it as a compliment.

She cracks a smile. “Do I disappoint you? Look, I moved on after the war. I wasn’t happy about what happened, but I could see it was time for change. Part of me was glad to move on . . .” Again, she solicits his own experience. “What about you?”

“No.”

“It looks like you’ve moved on.”

“I haven’t.” He can’t. Well, more like he doesn’t want to.

“Well, I recommend it.”

“You’re pragmatic for a Jedi,” he approves. He’s used to meeting idealistic types on the Light Side. This woman sure isn’t that.

He strips off his left glove now and raises his hand toward her face. “Time to get this over with. Don’t fight me and this will be quick and easy.” He wants information. He has no interest in killing this woman. It would be very dissatisfying. She doesn’t feel like an enemy at all, actually.

She doesn’t even flinch as he invades her mind. “See what you want, Sith,” she invites. “I can’t help you.”

It turns out that she’s right. This Jedi woman is who she pretends to be. A commercial pilot who flies four days a week and spends the rest of her time at her home with her husband and his kid from a prior marriage. Her family knows of her Jedi past, but no one else does. She keeps her lightsaber close more out of habit than any desire to use it. In all the ways that matter, she has left her Jedi life behind her. And she’s happy, he sees.

“You’ve never been to Tattooine?” he asks, when he can’t see any evidence of the planet in her memories.

“The company strictly moves high end goods. We don’t go to the Rim much,” she answers.

He files that datapoint away. Was the guard who delivered her wrong? Or was it a deliberate misdirect? Why would Plagueis want to keep him away from Tattooine? Now, he’s more suspicious than ever that there’s a Jedi on that desert planet.

He doesn’t ask the woman to open the Jedi holochron for him. Mostly it’s because he’s beginning to seriously consider putting his active search for Kenobi on hold. Maybe a break from that quest is what he needs. Maybe it doesn’t matter who’s on Tattooine.

He’s basically done with the Jedi when his men let Rhea into the cell. She’s carrying a tray with food for the prisoner. 

“Sir, Mrs. Nettles sent me.”

“A last meal?” the Jedi woman looks to him.

“Just your last meal here,” he answers. “You were cooperative. I’m letting you go free.”

“Drop her on Coruscant like the last one?” his underling asks.

“No,” Maul decides. “Drop her wherever she wants. I don’t care. Be sure to give her sword back so she can defend herself.”

“Got it.”

He’s done, but he lingers. He watches as Rhea creeps forward to place the tray where the prisoner can reach it. This is how he has seen Rhea during the nearly a week since their twilight walk in the ruins. It’s always in passing when she appears to deliver a meal or he sees her cleaning. He hasn’t been avoiding her, he’s been busy. On hologram calls when she arrives with dinner or marching to a meeting when he stalks by her in the hallway. She does now what she does each time they brush by one another: she lifts her pretty brown eyes to lock with his. There’s never a smile to accompany the mutual recognition. Just a brief look that no one notices but them.

It tells him how much impact his truths have made. For she carries his secrets around like a yoke about her shoulders. They bind her to him. It is as he had hoped. She is disillusioned now, like he is.

It’s a big step in life to see lofty heroes with feet of clay, be they sainted Jedi or revered statesmen emperors. To know that no one is as selfless as they pretend to be because everyone has a motive. To realize that the good guys are the bad guys and vice versa. To understand that truth is far from immutable. In fact, it’s largely a point of view. He wanted to show the little Twi’lek the ugly underside of galactic politics. To shock her a bit. To make her see that he’s not the only gangster Sith around. His father uses all the same methods to achieve similar goals, except it’s cloaked with a thick veneer of respectability.

The best education he could possibly have for running Crimson Dawn were his years spent as the Apprentice. It’s why he wears his current job title as a badge of honor, indignant to those like Plagueis who disdain it. He owns who he is. The problem is . . . he doesn’t like who he is.

He wants more. Like a true Sith, he wants more. And so, even as he wallows in his crime lord status, it fuels his pervasive self-loathing. Rhea sees that aspect of him. He thinks in some ways she shares that frustration herself. For she could have been more as well. Last week in the field of battle wreckage he was trying to explain it in the only way he could. To show her everything that he might have been—but isn’t—by revealing the truth behind the war and the Empire.

“Will that be all?” Rhea murmurs to the man who let her in.

“Yes, get going. The boss is busy with the Jedi.”

She nods and makes to exit the cell. Maul glances over. Will she meet his eyes again? She does. Then she ducks through the door. Right then and there, he decides he will make time to see her tonight. Maybe she can be the sounding board he needs for the hard decision about Plagueis’ war.

But back to the Jedi woman. He looks over to find the little Sullustan captive is staring thoughtfully at him. She’s Jedi so that makes her especially perceptive. Did she catch that subtle interplay between him and Rhea? She did. The Jedi woman says nothing, but her eyes are very knowing . . . and filled with approval.

“I recommend moving on,” she tells him.

Embarrassed, he snaps back, “Don’t make me reconsider selling you to Vader.” Then, he stalks off.

He’s waiting for Rhea when she appears that night with the dinner tray. He sits on the couch by the table where he normally eats, lying in wait for his housemaid confidante.

“Enter,” he calls as the door slides open courtesy of the Force.

“Good evening, Sir.”

He reaches to push the lunch tray away. “Put it here and sit down.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘Sir’ when we are in private,” he gripes. That formality seems at odds with the secrets she knows.

“Yes, Sir—“

“Maul. Call me Maul,” he insists.

“Yes, S—“

“Maul.”

“Yes, Maul.”

As Rhea places the tray on the table and sits down, he remarks, “I had a real given name as a young child, but I have forgotten it. It’s just as well. It would mean nothing to me now. Since my father took me, I have been called Maul.”

Rhea nods. Then she blurts out a question she’s clearly been dying to know the answer to: “Did you really let that Jedi woman go?”

“She’s being taken home tomorrow.”

“Are you doing that to spite Darth Vader?” Rhea looks a little amused at the thought.

He admits, “Maybe a little. But I have no fight with her. She’s free to go.”

“Where did you find her?”

“Plagueis found her.”

“He hunts Jedi too?”

“Uhmmm . . . yes. He likes to meddle more than anything. That old fossil can’t stand to be left out of the action.” Maul sighs and confesses to what they both know: “Like me.”

He now reveals, “Plagueis got bored with the Dark Side a while back and decided he wants to rule the whole Force. He thinks if he can balance the two sides, he can rule it all--the Dark and the Light.”

“Because he’s a Sith and he wants power?”

“Precisely.”

“But you disagree?”

“Of course, I disagree.” This is a sore point. “My mother was a Nightsister and my father is a Sith Emperor. I was born and raised for Darkness. Father disagrees just like I do. It was a big part of the conflict between him and his Master.”

Rhea nods along.

“This war Plagueis is proposing will be his path back to power. But it’s also his big ploy to lure Vader.”

“Vader? Why? To kill him?” she guesses.

“No.” Maul now confesses his dilemma, “Plagueis doesn’t want me, he’s after Vader for his Apprentice. I’m just a tool in his scheme.”

“I see.” Does she understand? She does. Rhea looks as deflated as he feels about the point. It seems he’s always everyone’s second choice. “I’m sorry,” she whispers as she reaches for his hand.

He grips hers eagerly. Then, he explains, “Vader was a Jedi once, like Dooku before him. Plagueis and my father have long toyed with the idea of how the Light relates to Darkness. They delight in corrupting Jedi to test it. Father does it to prove the primacy of Darkness. Plagueis does it to learn from the Jedi. That old Muun has become very convinced of his ideas about balancing the Force. But I reject all that. There is no balance.“

“So if the war succeeds and your father is deposed—“

“Plagueis will be running the show and he may well pick Vader for his Apprentice.”

“Not you,” she confirms.

“Not me.”

“Oh. Well, then you really shouldn’t do it . . .”

“I want to do it,” he says it out loud. He really wants to do it. “But it’s very risky. I need to kill Vader.” Or he needs to betray Plagueis to his Master so he can sideline that guy again for a while. Then, he kills Vader and he’s back where he belongs with father as the Apprentice. But he’s not telling Rhea that. She’s no Darth Sidious fan currently.

He looks down at their joined hands. “I have to decide if the risk is worth it.”

“You mean you have to decide if what you have now is enough.”

There she goes again being insightful. He looks away. “It’s not. I know that. But that doesn’t mean this is the right opportunity to take . . .”

“Will there be another opportunity than this?”

“Not that will give me legitimacy as a public figure and power player. Even if I sold out into lawful businesses, Crimson Dawn would haunt me. And I’m not driven by credits,” he complains. “These days, credits are mostly how I keep score. Being some Core world mogul sounds . . . boring.” And he wouldn’t get to kill anyone probably.

“You could be a Senator.”

“My father would never allow that. Besides, he controls the Senate. There is no power to be had there.” Plus, he refuses to do his father’s bidding unless he is the Apprentice. He’ll be damned if he takes orders from Vader.

No matter how he analyzes the situation, he keeps coming back to the same conclusion: he wants this opportunity with Plagueis. He wants it badly. But it’s high risk and it could be his undoing. This is a fateful choice if there ever was one. He has consulted the Force for guidance, but none has been forthcoming. And so, he’s asking his housemaid what to do.

He levels with Rhea. “I want to say yes.”

She nods gravely. She inhales a deep breath before she offers, “How do I help?”

He blinks, then immediately dismisses her. “You can’t help.”

“Are you sure?”

Yes, he’s sure. She’s way out of her league. “You’re a nobody with no skills, no connections, and no Force. What could you possibly do to help?” he gripes peevishly. All she can offer him is moral support. And trust. He trusts her. But in all the ways that matter, he’s on his own in this endeavor. If Savage were here, things would be different. But they’re not. He walks alone now. For even his so-called ally Plagueis is likely to become a true enemy by the time things play out.

That sense of loneliness prompts him to shoot her a resentful look. “Why are you even offering? You hate war. You fear it. Why would you want to help create it?”

Rhea answers slowly. Clearly, she’s given this much thought. “If what you say is true, then Emperor Palpatine is not fit to rule. And no one wants Darth Vader to take over.”

Are they actually having this conversation? They are. So, he doesn’t pull his punches in response to her show of support. “Having those opinions is one thing. Plotting high treason because of them is quite another step. Why would you want to do this?”

She looks down before she glances up and meets his eyes. “To make you happy,” she whispers.

Well, there is that. He thinks of the Jedi woman spending the night in a cell down the hall before his men taker her home. She broke free of her rigid upbringing and found happiness. A happiness her former Jedi self probably could not conceive of. Can he do the same?

But there are other concerns beyond just what he wants. “There is also Kenobi to kill . . .”

“Don’t—“ Rhea begins.

“Why not?”

“Don’t waste your time chasing revenge on some lost Jedi. Build something new for the Empire. Something larger than your own hurt.”

“I’d be starting a war,” he reminds her dryly. She’s making treason sound like public service.

Rhea phrases it her way. “You’d be liberating the people from a duplicitous tyrant Emperor and Darth Vader.” And when she puts it like that, she almost sounds like a rebel herself.

“This would be very dangerous. You could get killed,” he warns.

“If we fail, everyone here is marked for death, right? Won’t your father send Darth Vader to finish the job he started during the war? He’ll wipe Dathomir off the star charts.”

She’s right. She gets it.

“So, the way I see it, you can stay here and be this. Or you can be more. You could be the dashing rebel hero who is the key to it all. Because you know how the Emperor and Vader think. You can use their own tactics against them.”

Dashing? Did she say dashing?

“You could be a leader—a freedom fighter—a patriot—“

“More likely, a terrorist.”

“You could reveal the truth behind your father’s rise to power. You could expose him for who he is. At the very least, you could set the record straight.”

He can’t help but smirk at her youthful enthusiasm. Her naïveté. She’s so innocent in her optimism, which is a funny thing because they are contemplating war. It’s too bad Rhea is so useless, he thinks, because then she might have a role in this. But all she offers is moral support and trust. Well, maybe those are valuable qualities after all. They certainly are in short supply for a Sith.

Look at her. So sincere. It’s a little heady being this close to Rhea. She smells like homey things, he realizes. Like spices from the kitchen and cleaning solution. “You are full of Light, aren’t you?” he breathes out as he drowns in her milk chocolate eyes. They are inches apart and it’s still too far. But at least her warm hand in his feels nice.

“Not Light, hope,” she corrects him gravely. “Hope for something better than this. For you, for me, and for the galaxy. Maul, I know you want more. It’s so clear.”

Yes. That wretched Jedi woman today had seen right through him. And far from making him angry, it made him like her. In the end, some small part of him was jealous of that Sullustan. He let her go mostly because he appreciates how far the Jedi has come to get to the mindset where she is. He can’t do that—he can’t walk away. In fact, he’s as desperate as ever to get back to being Darth Maul. It’s why he’s going to start a war and risk it all.

But Rhea has no part in any of this. He shakes his head at her. “You don’t know what any of this means. You don’t know the Sith. You think that you will be exchanging one bad ruler for a benevolent one. I assure you, there’s nothing benevolent about me.” Or Plagueis, for that matter.

Her eyes find the Crimson Dawn medallion that hangs about his chest. She looks down to finger the matching tattoo on her wrist. “I know,” she says in a small voice.

Time for more tough love. “Revolution means war and war means death. It means innocents suffering. It means physical and economic devastation.”

“I know. I lived through it once before.”

“Then, why do you want to start it up again?” he jeers. “What’s in this for you?”

“Justice for the galaxy.”

He rolls his eyes, “You do sound like a rebel.”

Little Rhea is still not dissuaded. “I haven’t made many decisions for myself . . . not since I joined up. But I’m making this one. I want to do this,” she stakes her claim to agency. “I will help you . . . if you’ll have me.” Rhea cracks a weak smile at him. She’s sheepish. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

Is she talking about him or her? Maybe both? They are very different people at different points in their life with differing levels of culpability for their current circumstances. But they are both searching for more. She wants more, Maul sees, like he does.

He reaches his free hand to her cheek. Her injured cheek. She shies away like before, turning her head away. But he persists as he squeezes her hand that still holds his. Rhea takes it as a warning like he intends and stops resisting. And now, one hand cups the ruined side of her face as the other hand holds hers.

“Look at me, little one.” She obeys. He’s as intense now as he’s ever been. “I am my father’s son, and that means I am every bit as Dark as he is. I have done things you would abhor. I will do them again when it suits me. You will toil for me and I will let you down. I am a Sith and I scheme and betray for power. Do you understand? One way or the other, however this plot turns out, eventually I will hurt you. Or people will hurt you to get to me. One or both of us could easily end up dead. Do you understand?”

They are warning words but they come out like a vow. Like reckless, gushing pillow talk in the afterglow. And Force help this beleaguered, disfigured girl because she accepts. So desperate is she for any attention. He was right—Rhea is embarrassingly ripe for the picking. This little Twi’lek is as damaged on the inside as she is on the outside. For she breathes out, “Yes, I understand,“ when she should be fleeing for the exit.

He’s a man used to cold calculating types. The women he has known were Nightsisters or Jedi Knights or Mandalorian Duchesses, all of whom were lethal and every bit a match for their menfolk. They were the Ventress, the Ahsoka Tano, and the Lady Wren types. Not like this girl who is timid, but somehow insightful. Submissive but also stubborn. She’s also sitting far too close to him on the couch as she volunteers to plot treason.

“You once said that I need to find a cause to keep going,” she ventures, “to find a reason to go on and cling to it.”

He did say that, didn’t he?

“Well, what if my cause is you?” Rhea blushes furiously as she volunteers.

“Me?” he echoes as he leans in even closer. 

“You and the rebellion that exposes your father,” she amends quickly. Nervously. “I mean, I’m already in the gang anyway . . . ” Her meaning is clear—her fortunes are tied to his no matter what.

“You want to help me? You really want to help me?”

“If you’ll have me,” she nods.

He doesn’t know exactly what she’s offering, but he accepts on the spot. “I will have you, little one. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I understand.”

She doesn’t understand. Not really. Like every Apprentice ever, this housemaid thinks she knows what she’s signing up for. Once she finds out, it will be too late. There is no backing out.

A commitment to a Sith Lord is no small thing. Beyond the assumption of downside risk, it traditionally requires a show of loyalty. It’s why a new Apprentice often must demonstrate his resolve by killing his kin or someone close to him. The act is in the nature of a personal sacrifice. It shows that the commitment is worthy of relinquishing something valuable.

And so, were circumstances different, Rhea would be sacrificing tonight. He would swoop her up now and carry her off to his bed. There, he would seduce her and make her his. Burying his body deep into her warm, tight, virgin softness again and again. She would submit and he would dominate. It would be glorious. But that’s not an option. So, he settles for a kiss as a poor substitute.

It’s on her ruined cheek. The one scarred by a war like the one they will conspire to provoke. Some cultures give a kiss of peace as a greeting. The old Coruscant crime families give a kiss of death for a betrayal. This is neither instance. This is a kiss of war. And chaste though it is, it’s the first kiss he has given any woman since his dead mother.

END OF PART ONE

More to come.


	8. chapter 8--story notes to part one

Hello and thanks for reading. There is more to come, but I like to write my stories in parts. This chapter is intended to provide a little context for the story progression so far.

Star Wars is an ever-evolving universe and that’s been very fun as a longtime fan. It also means the saga keeps retconning itself in fun ways. Darth Maul’s character in particular has changed rather dramatically. He’s gone from being a plot device with cool character design and an amazing lightsaber to being the true tragic figure of the Dark Side. Wait, you say, but that’s Vader’s role?? Nope. Not anymore.

Sure, Vader has a sad backstory, but he makes choices that determine the trajectory of his life. Maul doesn’t really make a choice. He is kidnapped and raised to be a Sith assassin, then he ends up the Apprentice when Sidious ‘kills’ Plagueis. Then, before the grand plan even gets going, Maul is forever maimed on Naboo. That results in him being abandoned by the father/Master who raised him. Maul spends decades trying to claw his way back to reclaim the glory he feels cheated out of. He is consumed by hate and obsessed with his quest for revenge and Dark redemption back into his remote father’s good graces.

But _Vader_ , you say. Anakin is nearly Shakespearean in his downfall, right? Well, if it’s a competition for physical suffering, Maul is a contender. For he too is more machine than man. And if it’s a competition for mental suffering, then Maul’s decade of insanity wins over lonely Vader’s private regrets for Padme. Sure, Vader loses his mom and unwittingly sacrifices his wife on the way to the Dark Side. But Maul loses everyone. His Master makes sure he loses his entire family as well as his home world. Moreover, sad Vader gets a huge consolation prize—he rules the galaxy with the Emperor. Maul gets nothing. He will ultimately die in the Tattooine desert, falling to Obi-Wan’s sword. In the end, Maul gets none of what he struggles so hard to achieve. Even the revenge he chases for decades will elude him.

It’s that character arc—the failure, followed by abandonment, then insanity, crime, and more failure—that makes Maul a surprisingly sympathetic villain. That’s quite a feat considering 1) Maul never abandons or questions his commitment to being a Dark Sith (unlike conflicted Vader) and 2) Maul does some pretty heinous things, from killing Duchess Satine and beheading Mandalorian leaders, to causing complete political chaos on Mandalore. 

When my story begins, the Republic has fallen and Maul is in his Mafia boss/crime lord phase running Crimson Dawn. (Loved that _Solo_ cameo ending!) Think Tony Soprano in space. Incidentally, I think it’s interesting that _Clone Wars_ Ahsoka Tano ends up dabbling in shady business for a time once she leaves the Jedi Order. Like Maul, she’s adrift and unmoored when she is outside the religious institution that raised her. Shout out to Dave Filoni--I thought that was a nice parallel.

So, what does it mean to be the villain without a cause? What is the role of a leftover Sith? I just wrote a Vader story _Twilight of the Gods_ and I spent a lot of time exploring Vader’s search for purpose in the midst of his misery. Maul’s in a similar place at the beginning of this fic. He’s dissatisfied. Feeling like a failure. But unlike Vader, he’s not trapped.

Enter Darth Plagueis the Wise. Now anyone who has ever read my Reylo stories knows that I have a soft spot for Plagueis. I won’t go into all that here, but I firmly reject the idea that the first Sith Lord to have cheated death would end up . . . well . . . dead. And so, in my stories, he’s always alive and up to no good. He’s also the ultimate Force iconoclast—he’s the Sith heretic who pushes for balance. In _Twilight of the Gods_ , Plagueis tries to convince a very skeptical Vader and an even more skeptical Luke Skywalker to join him to get rid of Darth Sidious. There’s a lot of plotting and shouting, a few swords drawn, and some Force lightning thrown, and more than one ‘I am your father’ moments before the plot ultimately fails. I am a slave to canon so Vader gets the ROTJ ending. But Plagueis still lives, as always. Why am I rambling on about another story? Because _Twilight_ _of the Gods_ reveals that Darth Plagueis 1) funds the Rebellion and 2) knows why Obi-Wan Kenobi is on Tattooine and what he’s hiding. It turns out that Luke Skywalker is watched over from afar by a Sith Lord in addition to a Jedi. The Jedi aren’t the only ones who can play the long game.

Anyhow, those two plot points matter for this story, which is set about ten years before _Twilight of the Gods_. I wondered what Plagueis would be doing at this point? It seemed logical that he would be helping to organize the rebellion. The guy can’t do it himself, so he recruits Maul. He knows Maul will do the job well and that, like himself, Maul has plenty of motivation to oppose Sidious. Moreover, giving Maul the gig of organizing the Rebels will distract him from his revenge quest. Plagueis very much wants to keep Maul away from Tattooine. So, Part One ends when Maul makes the big choice to ally with Plagueis. It’s a step away from his commitment to a life of crime and revenge. Like Vader in _Twilight_ , this guy is searching for meaning. He’s fumbling around for ways to move on from his malcontent.

I really like the idea of damaged Maul creating a whole gang of damaged followers. Join Crimson Dawn, and you are trapped in that life just as its leader feels trapped. In many ways, Maul is trying to recreate what he lost on a smaller scale. He wants the renown, the achievement, the loyalty, the control, and the accomplishment he might have had with Sidious. But, of course, it’s a poor substitute. Being the galactic Don Corleone/Pablo Escobar might satisfy some men, but not Maul.

Maul feels cheated out of his place in history. I envision that Palpatine would have invested a lot in Maul. He was his first Apprentice and he raised him from a young age. While they are no blood relation, I have to think that this was more of a father-son type Master-Apprentice relationship than Dooku or even Anakin. So when Maul gets left for dead by Sidious, he is betrayed personally as much as professionally. It’s like getting disowned and kicked out of the family business simultaneously. Only the family business has no equivalent—it’s the only game in town.

Father-and-son drama is quintessential Star Wars, right? I love writing that stuff. Whether it’s Emperor Kylo dealing with the rebellious teenage son who aspires to be the next Darth Bane in _The Chosen One_ , or Kylo grieving his beloved/feared/admired/respected master Snoke in _Ghosts of the Past_ , or Plagueis giving the ‘I am your Father . . . in the Force’ speech to Vader and Vader trying and failing spectacularly to get through to Luke Skywalker in _Twilight of the Gods_ , that conflict never gets old. It’s in my Sith Empire stories as well, with the ridiculously overpowered but insecure Darth Vitiate (my Wizard of Oz of Ye Olde Sith Empire) haunted by his accidental murder of his stepfather and the abandonment by his real father in _Taking the Veil_. History repeats itself and so victim Vitiate in turn will become the villain for the next generation. Why? Because Vitiate knows that his own son will be the biggest threat to his power. Genetics is a bitch on the Dark Side. But when decades later the truth is revealed in _DARKER_ , that secret son does what no other Star Wars son ever does—he walks away. What would have happened with Vader had Luke Skywalker similarly decided to disengage? The course of the galaxy might have been different. So, yeah, in Star Wars, politics is always personal. It adds a little extra oomph to the conflicts in play. “I am your father” never gets old as a font of angst.

Maul’s abandonment by Sidious is a big deal with lingering effects. It will lead Maul to routinely attempt to sabotage his growing relationship with Rhea because the learned reflexive response to heartbreaking rejection is to reject others before they can reject you. Look, this guy is Dark. He’s motivated by power and revenge. He’s not looking to be reformed but, whether he knows it or not, he’s looking for love. All Sith Lords are looking for love. Be they alien or half machine, they are disconcertingly human. That’s a running theme in all of my Sith tales. Girl meets Sith is the trope I just can’t stop writing. Each time the girl is the catalyst for change and that change has consequences.

So if Maul’s going to have a lady friend, surely she’s going to be some version of the Nightsister Sith assassin Ventress or one of the bellicose and tribal Mandalorian ladies, right? Maybe a female Inquisitor? Uhm, no. Insecure, damaged, and depressed Maul isn’t about to let down his guard around a gal like that. Quite the opposite. Maul’s more likely to be putting on a big show of posturing and swordplay with that sort of woman. They are too challenging. Too equal. I personally think a guy like Maul would respond to an antagonistic or aggressive woman with violence, and that’s not the story I want to write.

Rhea’s primary appeal is that she doesn’t even register as a threat. She’s no Mary Sue. In fact, she’s the antithesis of the Strong Female Character that Hollywood wants to worship these days. You know—the hot girl with the shiny long hair who can throw a punch like a man and talk tough but still manages to look alluring. Instead, Rhea is a victim. And that’s what lulls Maul into a certain comfort zone with her. It allows him to reveal himself without losing the upper hand. If he thought Rhea had an ability to oppose him, he would never do that.

She is by far the most submissive heroine I have ever written. Now, I have written Sith lady loves who have no combat skills (Vader’s art historian second wife, most recently) and those who are low achievers with their Force powers (Vitiate’s middle aged unwitting femme fatale Lady Struct who is more interested in mothering than power, Plagueis’ stolen Jedi archivist wife whose Force talent is foresight not lightsabers). They stand in contrast to my warrior heroines like Rey (who is often lighting her sword first Jakku style) or Eleena Daru (the freed slave whose expert blaster aim can kill Jedi). But hey—I’m not writing role models. I’m trying to write characters who are true to their experience.

That’s my overall approach to Star Wars—I want to flesh out the archetype characters presented in canon to make them feel real. I also like to show the strength in ‘weaker’ characters. It contrasts to how I habitually show the weak, insecure underside of the strong, scary Sith. This theme of contrasts and contradictions flows throughout my stories lately. Basically, I delight in having people play against type. And so, I show the good in bad characters from time to time, just like I tend to show the bad in good characters, especially in my Reylo tales.

As we end Part One, Maul has a path forward and a new groupie. Recruiting an ally is a Sith thing, but it’s especially a Maul thing. He started with his brother. Later, he tries with Ahsoka Tano. In _Rebels_ , he sort of succeeds with Ezra Bridger. This guy calls them all Apprentices since it’s how Maul best understands close relationships. As always, he’s trying to recreate what he lost, only this time he’s in the Sidious role. Basically, Maul wants a sidekick follower. For now, he gets Rhea, who is not much of a tactical assistant for Sith Lord but may be exactly what he needs.

Anyhow, more to come when I dream it up. Rhea will become Maul’s unlikely gangster moll and it’s time to meet some Rebellion types. Maul’s about to start doing some ‘good guy’ things for some very ‘bad guy’ motivations. Thanks for reading.


	9. chapter 9

Mrs. Nettles pours Rhea another cup of tea and passes her more napkins to fold as she continues her story. “It was in the early years before the compound was built. Maul had a hideout in the Mid Rim back then. One night, we got raided by a local gang. They were nobodies,” the housekeeper sniffs. For even criminal enterprises have their own elitism. “Just some random thugs with a death wish. They came in through the backdoor and surprised me in the kitchen as they spread out looking for Maul.” The older woman grunts and makes a wry face at the memory. “That was the last time I ever got up for a midnight snack.”

She grunts as she recalls, “There I was standing in my nightie and bathrobe eating leftovers when bandits burst in. I screamed bloody murder and grabbed a kitchen knife.”

“What happened?” Rhea breathes out, leaning forward in her chair.

The housekeeper answers matter of fact. “They shot me in the leg and moved on. But I rose the alarm and ruined the element of surprise,” she says proudly. “I screamed loud enough for you to hear me on Coruscant.”

“Oh, wow . . . “ Blinking Rhea guesses, “So that’s why your knee hurts . . . ”

“Yep,” Mrs. Nettles confirms grimly. “It was bad. The medics wanted to take my leg but I refused. Maul intervened and told them to save it. He paid for all the bills and the rehab.”

“But it still hurts.”

“Yeah, well, the medics were right—it has all the problems they predicted. But it’s my leg and I’m keeping it,” the surly housekeeper harrumphs with a belligerent gleam in her eye. Clearly, she has no regrets for her decision.

“What happened to the bandits?” Rhea wants to know.

“Maul and the men killed them. Then, the next day we raided their hideout and slaughtered the rest of their guys. And that was the end of that,” she declares victory.

“Payback’s a bitch when it’s Crimson Dawn,” Marisol interjects from across the room where she stands inventorying the enormous walk-in pantry for the next supply order. As she pokes at her list on a datapad, the senior housemaid adds, “Maul killed our guards who failed to detect the attack. One was asleep. The other was distracted on the comlink with his girlfriend. Phone sex while we were being attacked, if you can believe it.” She rolls her eyes. “Men. Always thinking with their--”

“Anyhow,” Mrs. Nettles preempts her with a quelling look, “the point is that’s why I keep this at the ready.” The housekeeper gets up from her chair and crosses the room to open a drawer. She pulls out a wicked looking pistol blaster to brandish dramatically.

“There’s one in the broom closet on the top shelf as well,” Marisol chimes in over her shoulder from where she is still listening across the room. She looks to Mrs. Nettles to suggest, “Maybe we should lower it so Rhea can reach it easier.” Both Marisol and the housekeeper are quite tall for human women, each topping petite Rhea by a good six inches.

“Good idea. You know how to shoot, Rhea?”

“Er . . . no.”

“Marisol, get Uli to teach her,” Mrs. Nettles refers to the other maid’s husband who is one of Maul’s lieutenants. “A girl’s gotta know how to take care of herself,” she declares staunchly.

Marisol emphatically concurs.

These two women are very typical of the gang and of the working class of the galaxy generally, Rhea knows. They are not sentimental, but they are sympathetic. They live risk-laden lives but they carve out security where they can find it. Their relationships are often temporary and their families tend to be formed more from circumstance than from formalized commitments and blood ties. Still, they persevere and they endure. But it isn’t easy. Rarely, does it look pretty either. Nonetheless, these women have deep reserves of strength and resilience that many overlook and Rhea aspires to emulate. For from an early age, these women grew accustomed to the rampant unfairness and hardship of life. They stressed over when Dad would get paroled and whether Mom was getting laid off. Unlike young Rhea who worried over math tests and popularity at school. Her upbringing did not prepare her for the life she leads now.

Mrs. Nettles in is a mood to talk, so she continues. “When we moved here and Maul decided we were going upscale and would start wearing uniforms, I told him the dress had to be long enough to cover my scarred leg.”

“I like these dresses,” Rhea approves as she smooths her skirt. The female staff uniforms look neat and sharp but they are easy to move in. The ankle length hits the tops of her boots and doesn’t inhibit walking. The charcoal grey color doesn’t show stains either.

Mrs. Nettles beams. “I chose them myself. I modeled them after the uniform I saw on a holonet documentary that showed behind-the-scenes at the Imperial Palace. Maul laughed when I suggested it,” she remembers, “but he went for it.”

Just then, the sound of ion engines gets everyone’s attention. A ship is landing. The unfolded napkins are immediately forgotten.

“We don’t have any more arrivals today. That must be the guy Maul was expecting this morning,” Marisol guesses. “We thought he stood us up.”

Rhea’s ears perk up. This is news. She knows who was supposed to arrive this morning. It’s the rebel organizer who Darth Plagueis put in contact with Maul. Rhea had just assumed that Maul took the meeting this morning as planned. She has been looking forward to a debriefing on it tonight when she delivers his dinner tray. But it seems that schedule has gone awry and the meeting has yet to occur. Suddenly, she’s excited. Filled with anticipation and no small amount of nervousness on behalf of her boss.

“Geez, he came in a TIE fighter,” Marisol observes. She’s peeking out the window at the landing pad. “That’s real subtle. He’s lucky Maul let him land.”

Mrs. Nettles raises an eyebrow. “So we’re big enough to be bribing the Empire directly now? Well, I guess that’s good. Rhea, go meet the general, or admiral, or whoever he is and walk him into Maul. Just talking about getting shot made my knee hurt all over again,” she groans.

“Yes, ma’am,” Rhea leaps to her feet and hurries to comply. She’s curious who this man will be and rather shocked that a rebel operative would arrive in such a fashion.

Perhaps she should be aghast to be an accessory to treason with a man like Maul. But then again, her standards are not what they used to be. These days, she’s looking to salvage what’s left of her life and make it meaningful. This is her first chance to do that. To be more than just an anonymous domestic worker at the headquarters of a notorious figure of the galactic underworld. 

Rhea’s never been interested in becoming a spice smuggler or running a brothel or any of the other paths that might be open to her in the gang. She’s never wanted to profit from others’ misery and addictions. And so, the chance to right the wrongs of Sheev Palpatine—risky though it is—feels like a better fit. Rhea is still young enough to be idealistic but aggrieved enough to be angry. And that perfectly positions her to be a rebel.

Very soon, she is standing in the compound foyer doing her best to be subtle about sizing up the new arrival. Like every visitor, the man is met by Maul’s conspicuously armed guards and scanned for weapons. He yields over his sidearm blaster strapped to his leg and a comlink and datapad. Then, the guards walk him from the landing pad to the compound entrance where Rhea awaits.

So, this is the spymaster of the underground rebel movement, she thinks. He’s a human man in his middle years with a square jaw and a swagger. He’s rather ironically dressed in an Imperial army officer uniform and he sports the martial bearing and the close-cropped haircut to match. He is not at all what Rhea expected from a traitor attempting to plot revolution. It’s making her nervous. She hopes it doesn’t show.

“Here ya go, Rhea,” the oblivious guards hand him off inside. But the man barely even notices her. He’s too distracted by the compound surroundings, much like she was when she first arrived to Darthomir. The visitor is looking out the window even now as he remarks, “It’s like a time warp here.”

It’s true. “The Separatists destroyed the entire planet.”

“I guess that makes this a good location to hide,” the man decides after he looks some more.

“Yes,” Rhea responds, “but we’re here mostly because this is our leader’s home.” Before Maul was stolen by the father who raised him to be his heir and then abandoned him to obscurity. Before that same unforgiving father vented his frustration by punishing an entire civilization for knowing secrets of the magic Dark Force power that he hoards for himself.

The newcomer gives her a curious look, like what she’s saying is surprising. But she’s not revealing anything that’s not common knowledge about Maul. The visitor gives her a second look now. Rhea is used to that reaction. She’s unsurprised when his eyes linger in silence on her scar. At least this guy has the good grace not to comment while he stares. Try as she might, she’ll never get used to being gawked at.

Ignoring the reaction as best she can, Rhea plays the role of gracious hostess. “Welcome to Crimson Dawn,” she intones, hoping to approximate the gravitas of gruff, old Mrs. Nettles.

The man nods. “Where is he? Let’s get this over with.” His tone is testy. Is he nervous like so many of Maul’s visitors? Or is he genuinely annoyed to be here? Rhea can’t tell. But so far, this rebel recruiter continues to confound her assumptions.

“Right this way. Follow me, please.”

Rhea leads the man to the formal office. As soon as they arrive, the door slides open to enter. Maul knows they are here, of course. Through the Force.

“Sir, a visitor has arrived for you,” Rhea begins as she steps into the stately space that is designed to intimidate.

“You’re late,” Maul greets his guest without ceremony. He’s lounging back in his big chair with his feet propped up on his desk and a datapad in his hands. He’s got his boots on, Rhea notices. But that fact is very much at odds with his informal demeanor.

“I detoured twice because I worried I was being followed,” the visitor answers coolly. “That’s a hazard of my line of work.”

“Maybe so, but it almost got you shot of the sky before you landed. We don’t accept uninvited guests and you’re hours past your appointment.” Maul takes down his legs and sits up in his chair to drawl, “Major Davits Draven, I presume? Officially of Imperial Army Intelligence but covertly of Senator Mothma’s band of rebels?” Maul might have his boots on, but apparently he won’t deign to rise to greet his guest. It’s a not-so-subtle sign of dominance.

The visitor eyes him. “You’re not Dryden Voss.”

“Do I disappoint?” Coy Maul raises his brows as he settles back in his chair and steeples his gloved fingers. “You wished to meet the leader of Crimson Dawn, did you not?”

“Where’s Dryden Vos?” The visitor looks annoyed.

“Vos is dead. He was killed last year after his top lieutenant betrayed him.”

The guest digests this information. Then he crosses his arms and announces, “I know you,” with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

Maul shakes his head. “We have never met.”

“Yours isn’t an easy face to forget.”

The answering smile is tight. “I’ll take that in the best way possible.”

“You’re Maul. The guy who hoodwinked all of Mandalore in the war.” This comes out as an accusatory growl. Rhea looks to her boss with true alarm.

But Maul is unphased. “You have a long memory. That particular episode—“

“There were two episodes.”

“—was expunged from the holonet years ago. Officially, it never happened.”

The Imperial Major gives a knowing look. “Officially, a lot of things during the war never happened, but they happened all the same. I was Republic Intelligence back then. I remember the Jedi kept a file on you. Until you supposedly died in a cell on a star destroyer when it went down at the war’s end.”

“I’m a hard man to kill,” Maul brags.

“So I see. You took Vos’ spot, is that it?”

“No. Vos worked for me.”

“That’s not what everyone thinks.”

“Everyone is wrong,” Maul counters easily. “I only recently stepped forward to acknowledge my role. But those in the know have understood all along that I am Crimson Dawn.” Maul now waves a hand at the pair of empty chairs facing his big desk. “Sit down, Draven,” he invites. “You too, Rhea.”

She looks to him with some surprise, but he nods his encouragement.

The visitor’s eyes catch this exchange. “And she is?”

“One of my lieutenants. You may speak freely in front of her. All in my organization know to respect confidences.”

“But not Dryden Voss’ top lieutenant?” Draven challenges.

“She knew as well. That’s why she’s dead,” Maul answers dryly. He can be just as plain spoken as his skeptical guest.

Rhea seats herself, perching in her chair across from her sprawling boss and next to manspreading Draven. She is a keen observer to the ensuing conversation, even if she has nothing to add to it.

The rebel contact begins by lowering expectations. “You should know that I’m only here because an influential backer referred us to you. This meeting is a courtesy to him. He was rather insistent.”

“Is that your way of saying you don’t need my help? That you’re ready to storm the Palace gates on your own?”

Maul is enjoying himself, Rhea thinks, as she watches the two men begin to circle and poke at one another. She’s familiar with the antagonistic, competitive way men relate to one another when they are trying to impress. Maybe in the realm of legitimate business, there are smiles and handshakes and a veneer of friendliness. But when a covert traitor meets a Sith lord crime boss, they dispense with the pleasantries. No one pretends this is anything other than a negotiation from the outset.

The guest refuses to be intimidated. “Everyone was opposed to this meeting and that was before I tell them who you really are.”

“Is being a traitor such an exclusive club?” Maul wonders aloud. It’s a tone that sends alarm bells off in Rhea’s mind. For the slower and softer Maul speaks, the more his staff know to worry. But this guy doesn’t know that. Rhea shoots Draven a warning look which he ignores.

“So you drew the short straw?” her boss goads some more. “Is that why you are today’s reluctant emissary?”

“Let’s just say that I am a very pragmatic man,” Draven answers. “An intelligence career doesn’t allow for many scruples. I leave those to the political types who sent me.”

“Well, good,” Maul smirks. “I too am a pragmatist. Draven, you and I will understand one another, I suspect.“

“Are you one of us?“ the visitor asks point blank. “Before we go any farther, I need to know. Are you committed to returning the Republic?”

Maul pauses. Then, he leans back in his chair. “Let me put it this way,” he purrs, “I want to kill Darth Vader.”

Draven levels Maul a cynical look. “Why? Is this some vendetta for a business deal gone wrong? Because I know you guys operate everywhere. Did Vader blow up some big spice shipment or something?”

“This isn’t business. It is entirely personal. I want to kill Darth Vader. Preferably in person myself.”

“Why?” Draven persists.

“Do I need a reason? Everyone hates Vader.”

Rhea nods enthusiastically to concur.

But the traitor Major perceives them as stonewalling. He crosses his arms. “I’ll need a reason for our leadership.”

Maul scowls. “Then tell them I want to kill Vader because he stole away my father’s affections.”

Draven blinks at this truth. His eyes narrow. “I wasn’t expecting that answer.”

“Believe it.” Maul moves on immediately without further comment. “What do you need to get organized?”

“Everything,” Draven sighs as he lists, “Weapons, troops, supplies, a base of operations . . . ”

Crimson Dawn’s boss grunts. “Perhaps a better question would be what do you have now?”

“Mostly, we have lot of idealists who know nothing about war. Rhetoric never won a battle,” the blunt rebel grouses. “Currently, we have small pockets of supporters scattered across mostly minor systems. Our only foothold in the Core is Alderaan.”

“Are the cells unified under a central command?”

“Not yet. We are working on that coordination.”

“What’s the hold up?”

“Some of the locals want to keep their autonomy. Many are concerned primarily with local system issues. They’re seeking small scale reform important to their own lives.”

“Meaning they’re not on board for your revolution?” Maul surmises.

“Not yet,” the rebel concedes. “Their current objective is reform within the Imperial system.”

“And the rest?”

“They fit into a category some in our leadership consider to be extremist.” Draven is choosing his words carefully.

“Terrorists?” Maul suggests.

Draven bristles. “That’s not a word we like to use, but yes. We call them militants.”

“Militants win revolutions,” Maul observes. “That’s how I won Mandalore. Death Watch was very useful.”

“Yes, I recall.” The traitor Major now flashes Maul a look Rhea identifies as respect. “While our leadership publicly denounces the militants’ aggressive approach, there are those of us who recognize the utility of their actions.”

“Meaning you passively support them at arm’s length? But don’t dirty your hands in the process?”

The Major equivocates. “Something like that.”

“Are there more like you embedded within the Imperial military?” Maul wants to know.

“A few. No one high up.”

“Obviously. They have too much to lose by dabbling in treason,” her boss observes dryly.

“What can you offer us?” Draven begins bargaining.

“Not credits,” Maul answers back. “Get your credits from the backer who sent you to me. He’s as rich as they come. What I can offer is my strategic advice and my knowledge. My men are expert at eluding Imperial entanglements.”

Draven cocks his head as he warns, “This isn’t running spice, Maul.”

“We know all the safe ports and the poorly patrolled hyperspace lanes. We have covert bases of operations throughout the Core and the Mid Rim that the local authorities tolerate because we grease their palms. You can operate from them as well if you do it discretely and do not interfere with our business.”

Draven nods thoughtfully, “I can take that offer back to my leadership. What about weapons?”

“I don’t have starfighters. We move spice in cargo freighters. But I have plenty of contacts in the munitions industry. As you might imagine, we take security very seriously.”

Draven is very interested now. “Specifically, what can your contacts get?”

“I use them for blasters, portable shield generators, ion cannons, cloaking devices, jet packs . . . that sort of thing. We are called upon to defend our shipments from time to time. And, we’ve been known to raid the competition now and then. We also use a lot of communication and surveillance equipment. You’re in Intel—you know the value of a secure flow of encrypted information.”

“Doesn’t the Empire crack you?”

Maul shakes his head. “The Empire doesn’t care. They’re no threat. It’s my competitors I worry about.”

“Is there no honor among thieves?” Draven smirks.

“None at all,” Maul confirms, his yellow eyes snapping. He’s having fun, Rhea senses.

The rebel organizer considers a moment. “What do you want in exchange?”

Maul’s answer is bold: “A seat on your leadership council or whatever it’s called.”

Draven scoffs. “Those are Senators, business leaders, and philanthropists. They’re not going to sit across the table from a narco boss like you.”

“Careful. Those high standards of yours may keep you from succeeding,” Maul chides mildly. “Draven, if I’m going to volunteer my assets for your use, I want to know everything that’s going on. My offer is contingent upon me being one of the decision makers. Take that back to your leadership.”

“Fine, but this isn’t going anywhere,” the Major warns. “In fact, what you’re asking is a non-starter.”

“When you present my offer and tell them who I am,” Maul continues undeterred, “be sure to tell them that I built a crime syndicate in fifteen systems from scratch. Go ahead, give them full disclosure of my exploits,” he decrees breezily. “Then tell them that I’m ready to take over the Empire.”

“Our goal is the return of the Republic,” the visitor reminds him.

“Yes, of course,” Maul allows. “A little revolution now and then is a good thing, I suspect. It keeps things fresh,” he smirks.

“This offer isn’t going anywhere, Maul. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Next time, don’t be late. Here,” Maul reaches into his desk and produces a comlink. He tosses it at Draven. “It’s secure. Contact me to report back. Rhea, show him out.”

The rebel operative takes the hint. He pockets the comlink and stands to his feet. “You still have the fancy red Jedi sword?” he asks Maul offhand. “The one with the double blades that you used to execute Pre Vizsla?”

“I killed him with the Darksaber as a sign of respect for Mandalore. It was a fair duel and he received a warrior’s death.” Maul cocks his head at his guest now. “Someone’s done their homework. Should I be flattered?”

“Information is my stock and trade,” Draven answers, “so you can expect that I’m going to do a lot more homework on you now. Vizsla was your ally until you sought to eclipse him,” he recalls. “You joined his cause Death Watch and then you made it your own for your own purposes.”

“Worked like a charm,” Maul brags. “Lucky for you, we have the same goal.”

“We don’t.” Draven’s eyes are steely. “You want to kill Darth Vader and I want to bring back the Republic.”

“You will never do the latter without the former,” Maul informs him. “They are the same goal. But never fear,” he allows breezily with a wave of one gloved hand, “I have no ambitions to be the next Republic Chancellor. You can assure Senator Mothma that I won’t be her rival.” Maul turns to her now. “We’re done. Show him out.”

“Yes, Sir. This way, Major,” Rhea gestures to the door.

Maul is waiting inside when she returns from handing the visitor off to the guards. Her gaze lifts to find his strange yellow eyes. This has become a habit. It’s almost involuntary now for them to catch a glance even in passing interactions. Unless they are alone like now, that’s all it is. Just a fleeting moment of mutual recognition and silent solidarity. Like a secret between them.

Maul looks very satisfied. “He’ll be back.”

“Do you really think so?” Rhea isn’t sure what to make of the conversation she just witnessed.

“He all but admitted that they are desperate for unity. I might be able to give them unity if I give them a path forward. Sometimes, you have to show people what is possible in order for them to join you. They have to get comfortable that they can succeed in order to take the risk. So if I can provide the assets and contacts they are missing, the unity may come quickly.”

“What if some of them truly just want reform?” she counters.

“Then they will sit on the sidelines for now,” he shrugs. Maul is very blasé about war, she’s noticed. “When the rebel sympathizers see conflict is inevitable, they will fall in line. Few people volunteer to start a war, but once it begins you have to choose a side. We just have to make it look winnable. People flock to the winner's side.”

Rhea worries, “But can’t the Empire avoid a war by compromising?” She’s concerned that a rebellion will be harder to provoke than Maul thinks. After all, most people don’t know the truth of Emperor Palpatine like she does now. Many citizens will give him the benefit of the doubt, she fears. Like she would have, had Maul not revealed the secret subtext of the Clone Wars. But if anyone can undo the decades long, massive scale gaslighting deception of a Sith Master, it will be his former Apprentice, she hopes.

“My Master won’t recognize that war is coming," Maul predicts. "Overconfidence is his weakness. He will see this as low-level discontent that has flared up. He’ll send Vader to deal with it.”

She looks to Maul. "That's what you're hoping for, right?"

"Yes." His feral yellow eyes are gleaming now. “Vader has no subtlety and high negatives. Like the former Jedi he is, he’s tone deaf on politics. It will play into our hands nicely when he overreacts.”

Together, she and Maul now watch through the window as the visitor's TIE fighter lifts off. At her side, Maul muses, “It sounds like the rebels are mired in politics. They have too many thinkers and not enough doers. Plagueis is right. They need a leader.”

“That Major doesn’t seem like he has much power.”

“Maybe not. But he might have the ear of someone who does.”

Rhea now raises a point that troubles her. “Sir, if you let the rebels use our facilities, it will endanger everyone. It makes the whole gang traitors by association.”

“Perhaps.”

“Vader won’t care. He’ll arrest us all,” she frets. Including people like Mrs. Nettles and Marisol who she suspects would side with the Empire against any rebellion. “He'll treat the gang just like he does people who unknowingly harbor Jedi fugitives.”

Once again, Maul’s bloodshot yellow eyes slant over to hers. Their corners crinkle slightly. “Getting cold feet?”

“No!” she disavows immediately and vehemently. “I agreed to this. But others didn’t.”

“Then we cannot fail,” Maul answers solemnly. Then, suddenly he smiles. It's a true smile, not a mocking smirk. It's the first time she's seen him genuinely happy. It prompts Rhea to smile back.


	10. chapter 10

Always there are two: a Master and an Apprentice. One day, the Apprentice rises up against the Master. If he succeeds in killing him, he becomes the new Master and takes a new Apprentice. If he fails, he dies and is replaced. Then, the cycle begins anew. That is the way of things, the way of the Sith.

It has been that way since the fall of the Sith Empire when a man named Darth Bane grew tired of the incessant infighting and betrayals that crippled the Sith cause. Lord Bane took matters into his own hands and killed the Sith himself. He didn’t limit his violence to rivals and enemies. He killed friend and foe alike. Ultimately, he would destroy the Sith in order to save them. It was mass murder, religious reformation, and a coup d’etat combined. By the time Bane was done, a vibrant civilization that controlled half the galaxy was reduced to an underground cult of Dark brotherhood.

Bane took the Sith’s love of violence and gave it a focus and a purpose, all designed to promote the institution of the Sith. But he kept the Sith’s forever goal: destroy the Republic. Bane called it the Rule of Two and it has been a mainstay of the Sith tradition ever since. One Master and one Apprentice scheme together to enact revenge on their forefathers’ ancient enemy, the Jedi-loving Galactic Republic. For generation upon generation in furtherance of that goal, only the strongest Sith survived to pass on their knowledge. All until a heretic Muun Master named Darth Plagueis the Wise came along. He called bullshit on the Rule of Two and threw the predictable order of things out the window.

That’s why when Plagueis’ own Apprentice Darth Sidious came home from Dathomir with a Mother Witch’s stolen firstborn son, Plagueis told his Apprentice to train the boy rather than to kill him. Teach him well and make him one of us, Plagueis decreed. We will have use for him in the future. For old Plagueis envisioned a new Sith Empire in the tradition of the original. The galaxy would be run by Sith overlords all allied together under his rule. Plagueis would be the new Sith Emperor Vitiate and his Apprentice Sidious would be one of several Lords, including the witch’s stolen Dark boychild.

But Darth Sidious had other plans. He loved the Rule of Two and he coveted the rank of Master. So once Plagueis had plotted the entire Clone Wars and all the critical parts were set in motion, Lord Sidious rose up to ‘kill’ his Master. Maul, Sidious promised the witch’s stolen son, I will set us free. The galaxy will be ours. Maul had believed him. They would rule the galaxy together as father and son. They would live happily ever after on the Dark Side of the Force.

Except old Darth Plagueis wasn’t dead.

Except Maul himself would soon be injured and cast out.

His replacement Dooku would die, but then that Jedi Pretender showed up.

Nothing went as planned. Or, maybe . . . it did. Decades later, it’s still too soon to tell how destiny will resolve things.

Maul had been the Apprentice back when that slave kid Skywalker first burst on the scene. The Jedi nabbed him and that was a huge relief for his Master. Darth Sidious was terrified of that sweet-faced ten-year-old boy, Maul remembers. It took him decades to understand why.

It turns out that Anakin Skywalker was believed to be the legendary Jedi Chosen One by no less than the Jedi High Council. Who is the Chosen One? He’s the Jedi prophesied to balance the Force—whatever that means—and by doing so, the Chosen One is supposed to destroy the Sith.

_To destroy the Sith_. No wonder his Master was scared. That Skywalker kid threatened everything.

But Anakin Skywalker didn’t destroy the Sith, he joined them. He’s been the Apprentice ever since. Because yet again, nothing went as planned. Or, maybe . . . it did. It’s too soon to tell how it will all end.

But in the meantime, that makes four Sith rambling around the galaxy and that is two Sith too many for Maul. But not for the Dark iconoclast Plagueis who wants to revoke the Rule of Two. And not for his father who let him live after that ugly confrontation on Mandalore. His Master apparently is fine with three Sith, at least for now.

Why does any of this matter? Because the endgame of the rebellion Maul plots is the Rule of Two. But which two will rule? Therein lies the risk.

Will his rebellion fail, meaning Sidious and Vader are affirmed in their current roles? That’s a real possibility.

Will Vader die and Sidious take him back as Apprentice? That’s a chance he would leap at.

Or will both Sidious and Vader die and he and Plagueis rule going forward? He could handle that outcome, even if it’s not his preference.

But if just Sidious dies, could Plagueis be comfortable with both Vader and him hanging around? He might. It would be an updated version of the original plan from decades past. But could he himself handle that scenario? Maul isn’t sure . . . but he doubts it.

This current circumstance is exactly why Bane created the Rule of Two in the first place. To keep infighting and ambition from destroying what the Sith had accomplished. But here they are, a thousand generations later, with two Sith plotting to overthrow the fledgling new Sith Empire that’s barely a decade old. It’s everything Bane disdained and tried to preempt. For none of this would be possible were there not currently two Sith too many. Where this ends is anyone’s guess. Only the Force knows for certain.

But the Sith tend to thrive on calculated risks, and Maul is no exception. A Sith dares anything, his Master taught him. Well, he’s betting big now. It feels good. Like it’s right. Like the Force is with him in opposition to his father.

He’s back in the action again after all these years. Will his Master suspect it? How will he react when he learns of it? Will he be proud? Maybe even a little scared? A Sith dares anything, even patricide, but only if necessary. And hopefully, it won’t be necessary. Please don’t let it be necessary. _Forgive me, Father, but I am determined._ Determined in a way he hasn’t been for many years. _Either way, I will make you proud. I never gave up. I was just waiting for my chance._

But ordinary people don’t think like the Sith. They don’t covet power and kill for it. Except for his militant little Twi’lek housemaid, that is. There is a quiet desperation about Rhea Cardulla that resonates with him. It’s why she’s volunteering for treason, he suspects. No one takes on that kind of risk without good reason. Especially, a woman.

That’s not sexism. He grew up in a matrilineal society, so he has no issue accepting women as authority figures. Still, as a general rule, women tend to be more risk averse than men. They are simply hardwired that way by nature to ensure the survival of the species. It’s why the lethal female witches of Dathomir kept to themselves while the overwhelmingly male Sith sought to rule the galaxy. The fact is that a woman’s focus tends to be inward on keeping what they have, while the male perspective would risk it all for the chance at more. And so, little Rhea’s enthusiasm to topple the Empire has him proud of her. Maul has known all along that she is far less subservient than she pretends. Her zeal for armed insurrection—that smacks a little of Dark revenge—confirms it.

It’s what motivated him to have her to listen in on the initial meeting with Major Draven. And that gets Maul thinking hard about what role Rhea might play in his bid to organize a rebellion. Sure, he could create a role for her, but he’d rather use her strategically. She wants to be more than a maid and he plans to give her the chance.

Those musings are why he takes Rhea with him on a trip to check on his casino management. She’s ostensibly along to serve on his cruiser. But Maul surprises her and everyone else by inviting her along to accompany the rest of his retinue when they reach their destination. He’s got two lieutenants, a data guy, and his on-staff forensic accountant with him today. Altogether with Rhea, the Crimson Dawn delegation strides into the largest casino on Canto Bight like they own the place—which they basically do.

There is a fine line for a gang boss between being too visible and being invisible. That’s why most of the time, he sends people to do these routine surprise visits. Typically, he’s only present if there is someone to kill. His gang takes pride in the fact that their leader does his own dirty work. But the truth is that Maul relishes violence and he hoards it for himself. He needs that outlet for his Darkness. But he’s not anticipating killing anyone today.

But the quaking casino manager doesn’t know that. He and his senior staff are here to receive them. Clearly, someone recognized his cruiser ID from the landing permit. The locals begin bowing and scraping immediately. But he’s impatient. As a general rule, he prefers to dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business.

He sends the data guy and the accountant to take random snapshots of the financial records to analyze later. He’s learned from experience to always be on alert for innovative fraud. Meanwhile, the two lieutenants walk the casino floor and the back offices selecting random employees at all levels to interview. He’s found that the best way to learn what’s going on is to talk to people. You’d be surprised what people will reveal when you ask.

He himself just rambles around observing things. He drops in on the high roller rooms with the high stakes tables. He peruses the row of restaurants and bars, noting the occupancy and the crowds. It’s a weekday afternoon so the casino is far from full, but these establishments work around the clock, day in and day out. There are always people willing to throw their credits away for the chance of a big win.

With the others scattered to assess things, it’s just him and Rhea now as he heads to the high-end shops located just off the casino floor. That’s not an accidental placement. If a guy wins big and wants to splurge, Maul wants his shops to be in close proximity to take the money back. The whole casino complex is designed to meet customers’ needs and whims. That way, they never need to leave to spend their credits elsewhere.

“Have you been here before?” he asks Rhea as they walk. He knows the answer already and it’s not from the Force. It’s obvious from the way she’s trying hard not to gawk and only mildly succeeding. And that’s Rhea—she’s an open book. He plans to use that endearing youthful earnestness to his advantage with the rebels.

Rhea shakes her head as she marvels, “It’s even more beautiful than it looks on the holonet . . . ”

“That’s the look of credits.” The casino is very luxurious even if the daytime clientele is dressed more for comfort than for show. It cost a fortune to renovate this place a few years back. But to stay at the top, you have to have high standards. Rich people can be very discerning.

They are on the shopping boulevard now. All the most exclusive labels in the galaxy are represented here. It’s like a high street from Upper Level Coruscant replicated here on Canto Bight. Rhea is impressed. “It’s very glamorous,” she commends as she looks around. “I can see why all the celebrities come here.”

“We only care about the high rollers. The ones who try to avoid getting their picture taken. They are the real customers.”

“So you own all this?”

“I control it. It’s a joint venture with the Pikes. Together we own the casino facilities but Crimson Dawn manages the day to day. I like to drop in unannounced from time to time to make sure our business partners are staying within the confines of the deal. The Pikes can be aggressive.”

“I can imagine,” she nods.

“Trust but verify is the only way to deal with them,” he advises.

“Do you gamble?” Rhea wants to know.

“Not for credits.” But for power . . . well, that’s a different issue. For power, he’s a high stakes player. And also, a repeat loser. But he has a feeling that’s about to change. Rhea here will be part of his comeback.

“I’ve never gambled,” she confesses.

“That’s wise. Here, the house always inevitably wins. And I am the House,” he brags. “I have never seen the appeal of it personally, but gambling makes good credits. People get a rush from the risk. But a wager on a chance cube or a roulette wheel loses its excitement for a Force user who can see the future.”

Rhea stops short. “You can see the future?” she says a little too loudly.

He doesn’t correct her. Because now, she’s really impressed and it’s by him and not just by his business. He explains, “Simple things like how dice will fall are easy for me to predict and to influence. But most things are more complex and involve other people’s free will. Then, I can only get a general sense of things. But still, it’s an advantage.” He recalls aloud now, “I once caught a Jedi here. He came through and cleaned up at the craps table. When he stupidly returned, I happened to be here. I asked to meet him. That was a surprise for both of us,” he chuckles at the memory.

Just now, an exuberant looking human man and a Togruta woman pass them by talking loudly of the credits they just won. Rhea watches them, noting, “They just got lucky.”

This time, Maul corrects her. “There’s no such thing as luck. He just won, but he’ll lose those credits if he keeps playing. And if he cashes out for good, he’ll likely spend his winnings at the bar or a club or at the shops. We have many ways to take your money here. And that’s not counting the prostitution and the spice we can supply you in the privacy of your hotel room.”

“They looked really happy,” Rhea murmurs. “At least that part is nice . . . ”

“I am never nice,” he snorts, “especially when it comes to business.” They have reached his destination. It’s an exclusive boutique of women’s clothing full of luxury goods to blow casino winnings on. “Come.”

Rhea dutifully follows him in. She thinks they are here for him to continue to inspect his business. So, she looks absolutely shocked when he tells the saleslady who approaches to outfit Rhea.

“S-Sir??” his housemaid blinks at him. Then visibly gulps.

“Don’t argue,” he chides her. Then he instructs the saleslady, “Make her look like a lady.” The low-level employee clearly has no idea who he is because she discretely asks if there is a budget. “Not if you impress me,” he answers. He then watches as the saleslady’s eyes flit neutrally over Rhea’s face. The woman does not react, and that’s a point in her favor. In fact, she seems far more concerned with scrutinizing Rhea’s figure than her scar.

He cools his heels on his datapad while Rhea is whisked away to a fitting room. Minutes later he glances up from his work at the sound of footsteps. He does a double take. Rhea and the saleslady are back.

Wow. Just wow. Who knew his little housemaid cleaned up so well? Rhea is wearing a black cocktail dress and sparkly high heeled sandals. Her arms are bare and what breasts she has are on full display with the décolleté neckline. And who knew Rhea was hiding such shapely legs beneath her uniform? His eyes trace one green limb from where it teeters in the unfamiliar stiletto shoes up to where it winks at him through a thigh-high peekaboo slit. Rhea is dressed to slay men’s hearts. Though it’s not at all what he had in mind, Maul is thoroughly enjoying it.

Rhea’s green skin flushes deep purple-red beneath his intense silent scrutiny, even as those big brown eyes of hers look to him craving affirmation. The Force tells him how much she wants to please. And does she think he will reject her? He would never reject her, for he knows firsthand the bitter sting that causes. Besides, she’s gorgeous. Dressed like this, Maul could deny her nothing.

“We have a tailor droid in the back that can fix the hem,” the saleslady prefaces her comments. “That dress really should come up a few inches to fall mid-calf rather than to the ankle. But you get the idea.” The woman purses her lips as she considers Rhea further. “Perhaps the slit could come up a little higher as well.”

Poor Rhea visibly panics. Her hand reflexively reaches to cover the flesh already showing through the part in the fabric. “H-Higher?” she echoes weakly. For his beguiling little Twi’lek is modest. It adds to her allure. She’s so ripe for seducing. So wholesome and unaware of her sex appeal even as she stands before him looking dangerously alluring.

He knows if he told her, she would never believe him. She’s too inured to scorn. How any man can fail to appreciate Rhea’s considerable beauty is beyond him. They must only see the scar, he supposes. Other men react to her disfigurement and look away before they can perceive the rest. Those small-minded fools can only see her flaw. They don’t deserve her, he decides.

The saleslady is still focusing on fit. “Oh, yes, definitely higher,” she decrees. “The slit is in proportion to the neckline. They balance each other,” she assures Rhea. The woman now looks to him for approval.

When he says nothing, the saleslady continues trying to make the sale. “This is very becoming, don’t you think? She has the leanness and angular bone structure to pull off a plunging neckline. On another woman, this might be vulgar. But on her, it’s elegant. Turn around. Show him the back. It’s a showstopper.”

Rhea dutifully turns to reveal that the back of the dress is entirely cut out. Beneath Rhea’s gently swaying lekku there is a wide and deep triangle of exposed skin from her upper back down to the top of her hips. Like the view from the front that it mimics, it’s a lot of skin. But the dress is so sharply cut and well fit that it reads expensive rather than tawdry.

Rhea doesn’t look like she’s trying too hard. She looks like everyone else needs to up their game.

Maul feels his mouth grow dry as he feasts his eyes on this unanticipated sight. Oh, the things he would do to this young woman if he were a whole man still. His near-human-but-not-human anatomy saved his life when he was bisected on Naboo, but it didn’t save all of him. He’s a eunuch now. Physically capable of all the normal longings of a man but incapable of consummating them.

And that’s a problem. He learned long ago not to lust for women because it only increases his state of frustration. But now and then, he can’t help it. He usually copes with those urges with violence. Sex and violence are far more closely related than anyone likes to admit. And so, when he lusts too much without gratification, he inevitably lusts to kill. He’s compensating, he knows. Proving his manhood by physical or Force dominance because he can’t prove it in the bedroom. And what is he doing?? He knows not to dwell on these thoughts. But Rhea in that dress has him thinking things he shouldn’t.

The saleslady must read his expression correctly because she tries to increase her sale. “Are you two here for the weekend? If so, I’ve got some very chic swimwear and loungewear that would be perfect for poolside or for back in the room.”

Rhea turns back around. She meets his eyes and blinks rapidly but says nothing. She lets him do the talking.

And what does he say? This is getting awkward. They’re not a couple and Rhea doesn’t need a bikini. She absolutely does not need a bikini. A black string bikini. With loose, ready-to-be-untied strings for his eager hands. Just a few tugs, and he would unwrap her like a present and then—

“Do you like it?” the persistent saleslady prompts when he doesn’t answer, too preoccupied with his thoughts.

Her prodding is the wrong thing to say. He loves the dress, but the fantasy it provokes is all wrong and this situation is all wrong as well. This has taken a direction he did not intend. He’s inexplicably and disproportionately angry now as his Master’s frequent admonishment comes to mind: _Control your urges_. That was good advice back then, and it’s good advice now. But it makes his response come out especially harsh.

“I hate it!” he snarls as he lets his temper flare. “She looks like someone’s high priced whore! Cut the sleaze and make her look like a lady. Like someone other women will be nervous to meet. She needs to impress, not seduce.”

The saleslady takes the rebuke gracefully. “Of course. Let us try again.” Then she propels miserable looking Rhea back into the fitting room as fast as she can.

The second attempt is an overcorrection. Rhea looks positively prim. There’s more sex appeal in her maid uniform than there is in the boxy high necked, long sleeved, voluminous tunic over slacks getup she now sports.

The saleslady puts her best spin on it. “This is more modest but still elegant. It has a lovely flow as she walks, don’t you think? So comfortable and great for travel . . . ”

But he immediately dismisses the second dress. “That’s too old for her. She looks like she’s playing dress up. Try again.”

The third time is indeed the charm. Rhea walks out in a fluid column dress with an attached cape. It’s a very spare design, demure but elegant. While it has no ornament, the fabric is obviously expensive. Best of all, the eggplant color matches the blush he saw earlier in Rhea’s cheeks.

The saleslady notes that aspect as well. “This dress is a lovely color against her skin tone. And it’s more ingenue princess than grande dame. The cape detaches, but I like it on. It adds gravitas.”

He agrees. “Better.” Rhea looks like a Coruscant sophisticate. Like a young woman who has everything—beauty, brains, education, taste, and the bank account to match. Rhea looks nothing like a housemaid. She looks like she employs a housemaid for herself.

He addresses her now, “Do you like it, little one?”

She nods. A small, sheepish smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “I love it,” she admits, suddenly gushing, “It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever worn.” The girlish smile she flashes is well worth all the credits this shopping spree will cost him.

“Good.” He instructs the saleslady, “We’ll take that one and one more like it. Find something that’s the same idea just different. Make sure she likes it.”

Confirmation of an expensive sale gets the saleslady moving. Rhea ends up with another dress. This one has an attached hood, a belt, and graceful bell sleeves. The saleslady calls it Alderaan-style, whatever that means. But it looks appropriate for what he has in mind. He gives the saleslady payment and instructions on where to deliver the packages when the tailor droid is finished. 

When they are finally alone and outside the boutique, always discreet Rhea ventures in a low voice, “Sir, thank you for those fancy dresses. They are absolutely beautiful. But what was that about?”

Has she misunderstood things like the saleslady did? Maul comes clean. “The rebels want to meet with me and I want you to come.”

“Me?”

“You did volunteer to help.” He gives her an appraising look. “You are my lieutenant in this matter, remember?”

She’s confused. “Yes, but you said I had nothing to offer.”

“The rebels don’t know that. And when Draven searches for intel on you, he won’t find anything. No arrest records. No suspicious activity. You’re clean and that will help bolster my case for credibility.”

“But you’re Crimson Dawn.”

“Yes, and that’s out in the open. There was no point in hiding it. In fact, now I’m going to argue my public backstory as my best asset. But because of that history, they’re expecting a thug. I want to upend that assessment. You’re part of my strategy.”

“How?” she breathes. She’s still not following.

“I need a female lieutenant to get those female rebel Senators comfortable that I respect women for something other than employees in my brothels.”

“I see . . .” She nods slowly as she warms to the idea. Did she think she would be kept behind the scenes? Wrong. She’s going to be front and center for her treason.

“From time to time, you will accompany me on this special assignment. No one will know you’re my junior housemaid, so don’t act like it. You certainly won’t look like it in those clothes.”

He continues, “We will work out a strategy in advance, but I will be the bad cop to your good cop. We’re going to let all that sincere rebel zeal of yours show as bait. They’ll eat it up. A true believer always resonates with a true believer.”

“So we’re going to lie?” Rhea is still attempting to understand.

“Oh, no. We are going to use the truth to deceive. There is a difference.”

Her brow furrows. Honest soul that she is, Rhea is confused. “What difference?”

“What we are doing takes a lot more brains. We’re going to tell them selective truths and let them connect the dots as they perceive them.”

“So, we’re not going to lie. Instead, we will let them make false assumptions?”

“Precisely.” He smirks and happily tells her, "Here on my casino floor, the gamblers would call it a bluff."

Rhea isn’t slow on the uptake. As always, she is insightful. She flashes him sly smile that is startlingly sexy before she calls him out. “So, you are a gambling man after all . . .”

He owns it. “I am a Sith. We aren’t tempted to risk by mere credits. But we will stake everything for revenge and power.” He slants sardonic eyes over to her as he adds, “But you can call it justice, little one.”


	11. chapter 11

“There it is. The Tantive IV.”

“You're not worried, are you?” Rhea mumbles to her boss as she watches him expertly maneuver the small starfighter they are flying into the docking bay of the big corvette cruiser.

“I am never worried.”

“Okay. Got it. Me neither,” Rhea hastily amends. The disavowal sounds unconvincing even to her own ears. But she does her best to gulp back her misgivings.

The crime lord of Dathomir might not be nervous, but he is trying to impress. Maul has his boots on as well as a rather dramatic cowl and hood atop his usual black belted tunic and loose trousers. And always, the insignia of Crimson Dawn is displayed on a gold medallion hanging at his chest. Rhea too is dressed for the occasion in the light grey, not-coincidentally-chosen Alderaan-style day dress and matching boots Maul bought her on Canto Bight. If nothing else, the representatives of Crimson Dawn look dignified and expensive. Hopefully, it’s the sartorial opposite of the trashy spice thugs the rebels are expecting to meet.

Rhea is as prepped on the inside for this meeting as she is primped on the outside. For she has practiced many times the presentation she’s about to give. Today has a twofold purpose: to get past the Senator from Alderaan who is a gatekeeper to the rebel leadership and to establish Rhea’s credibility as a member of the Crimson Dawn team. For as it turns out, Maul is completely serious about portraying his housemaid as his special lieutenant for treasonous activities.

“I’m not worried,” she asserts under her breath. It’s a personal pep talk. “I’m not worried at all.”

“No, you’re not,” Maul assures her as he stands from the pilot seat. “You are excited. Those butterflies you feel are anticipation of success.”

“Success. Right.” She nods and tries to believe him.

“Come now,” Maul invites as he deploys the small craft’s landing steps. “Let us go shape the future together.” And when he puts it like that—so grandiosely—Rhea can’t help but smile.

“This truly is important, isn’t it?” she asks hopefully.

“This is everything,” he confirms gravely. And is it her imagination, or is there a twinkle in those bloodshot yellow eyes? It’s one of several instances when her taciturn, gruff boss has seemed almost happy of late. How he loves this new project he plots. It seems to invigorate and amuse him at the same time. She might be nervous, but he’s excited. The Sith apparently thrives on risk.

Maul gives some last-minute instructions as they climb down out of the ship. “Let me handle Draven. You charm the Senator.”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll try, Sir.”

“If you can charm me, you can charm anyone, little one,” Maul encourages in a low voice. And that’s their last opportunity to talk privately because Major Draven walks up to meet them in his incongruous Imperial army uniform.

It’s on. The time has come.

Draven quickly conducts them into a conference room immediately adjacent to the ship’s hangar bay. There they meet their host. The famous Senator from Alderaan is holonet handsome with neatly trimmed facial hair and a distinguished dusting of grey at his temples. Bail Organa has clearly been told to expect her ugly face because he looks her in the eye as he politely ignores her disfigurement. There is a somewhat awkward moment initially when the Senator wants to shake hands in typical politician fashion. Maul does not accept the offered hand, so Rhea steps up immediately to insert himself and do the greeting. Trying to act as confident as possible, she channels what she remembers of her professional mother who was smooth in social situations.

“Senator, good morning,” she says as she grips the man’s hand firmly and pumps it. Then, she nods to Draven who hangs back. “Major. Nice to see you again.”

While she’s glad-handing, Maul takes a seat . . . at the head of the table. It’s a not very subtle power grab. No one says anything, but Rhea catches the Senator and the Major exchange a quick look.

Things are not off to a good start.

The professionally genial Senator handles it deftly nonetheless. “Shall we get started?” He waves Rhea into the chair at Maul’s right hand while he and the Major sit to his left.

There is an uncomfortable silence now as everyone looks at one another. They are an unlikely foursome for a revolution. If politics makes strange bedfellows, then this meeting illustrates the point.

The Senator from Alderaan sits relaxed with his hands clasped before him on the table. Bail Organa looks alert and pleasant like he’s about to be interviewed for a Sunday news show roundtable.

Major Draven looks just as impatient and surly as Rhea remembers. But he got Maul this meeting, so he is something of an ally. Maybe he’s just a grumpy guy, Rhea thinks, as she eyes his twisted grimace.

Maul’s face, by contrast, is unreadable. And this is for Rhea who long ago grew used to his alien tattoos that can tend to obscure his expressions at first glance. His only concession to acknowledge their hosts is when he reaches up to toss back the hood of his cowl. It’s a princely gesture that reveals his distinctive crown of horns.

Meanwhile, Rhea sits at his side, ramrod straight in her chair and trying hard. She’s the youngest person in the room by at least twenty standard years and the only woman. She’s also meeting with a longtime Senator, a career military man, and her crime lord boss. It is intimidating company. It’s hard not to feel like she doesn’t belong. But Rhea swallows her misgivings and tries to do her part.

When the silence has persisted long enough, Senator Organa begins the meeting. “Major Draven has informed us of your interest in our cause. I can’t say we were expecting assistance from your sector, but we are open to discussing your proposal.”

Maul nods regally. Like he’s some head of state getting a briefing and not the guy on the hot seat trying to argue his way into the rebel fraternity.

Rhea now speaks up right away as instructed. “Senator, we may come from different backgrounds, but the cause of freedom is universal. We seek a galaxy free from tyranny, deceit, and repression.”

Draven is skeptical of her lofty words. He drawls back, “Is that so that your illegal enterprise can better prosper? So addicted citizens can line your pockets?”

Maul answers for her. “This is not about business. This is personal.” His eyes hold the gaze of Draven first and then the Senator for silent emphasis. “If anything, what we propose will hurt our operations. The Empire has been largely indifferent to what we do. Our opposition is usually from local system governments. That will change if we are known to aid your cause.” Maul leans forward in his chair as he makes his point. “You, gentlemen, are the bad company here, not us.”

It’s a bold assertion. The Senator raises an eyebrow. “You have a very colorful past,” he responds.

Maul takes it like a compliment. “I know a thing or two about armed revolt.”

Settling firmly into the bad cop role, Major Draven now grills Maul. “What was your objective on Mandalore? You were neither a Republic ally nor a Separatist that we can tell.”

“I was a liberator,” Dathomir’s native son proclaims. “The Republic had no business meddling in internal system politics. That sort of thing used to be forbidden by the old constitution.”

Draven presses, “It was wartime. Mandalore could easily have fallen into Separatist hands. Instead, it fell into your grip.”

“The Empire hasn’t done any better there than the Republic did. They don’t understand the clans at all. I did.”

Draven sees it differently. “The Jedi thought you were motivated by revenge against one of their own.”

“In part, I was,” Maul allows.

“And now, you’re motivated by revenge against Vader?”

Her boss smirks. “Are you a Vader fan? Or are you worried you’ll be next on my list? Don’t get on my bad side, Major,” Maul purrs, “and you’ll be safe.”

The Major bristles and now the Senator intervenes between the two men. Bail Organa has a low-key demeanor that dampens the atmosphere. He speaks with a politician’s practiced neutral tones. “Let us say that your reputation precedes you and that creates hurdles to your involvement. There are those among our leadership who would prefer to decline your offer of assistance because they fear introducing a criminal element to our cause.”

“You need my help,” Maul observes pointedly.

“We do need your help,” the Senator agrees. “But we fear the consequences of accepting it. That’s why we are meeting to discuss it today.”

Rhea states their side’s rebuttal bluntly now. “We’re not thugs, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“That’s not the reputation of Crimson Dawn,” Draven counters dryly.

Maul disagrees. “It’s a nuanced matter. Yes, we employ violence but we only kill our own kind. We don’t bother ordinary citizens. That’s bad for business and it attracts unnecessary attention.”

“You left a trail of blood and chaos on Mandalore,” Draven argues back.

“There was a war going on,” Maul shrugs. “There was killing from all sides back then. The Republic did a lot killing on Mandalore even after I was gone and the Empire has continued that tradition. I was not the first nor the last to employ those tactics. That world has long been a war zone.”

Draven nods but asserts, “There is a common thread through all of this whether it’s Mandalore or spice: you are ruthless, Maul.”

“Yes,” the Sith freely admits.

The Senator frowns.

Maul is impatient with their scruples. “You’re rebels, aren’t you? This is a revolution not a party. You do want to win, don’t you?”

The Senator frowns again. “Not if it means compromising our ideals. We have sufficient militants signed up already. We don’t need more to rein in.”

Maul’s yellow eyes narrow and squint. “Perhaps you misunderstand me, gentlemen. I am not a vigilante. I am leader. I build things. I took Death Watch from a band of malcontents exiled to a local moon and put them back in power. I took the remnants of that group and formed Crimson Dawn and now we’re in fifteen systems.”

“We can respect that in your own unorthodox ways you are successful,” the Senator chooses his words carefully. “But not all of our supporters are comfortable with your accomplishments and not all in our group are ready for armed conflict.”

“Senator,” Maul asks point blank, “are you ready to go to war?”

Bail Organa exchanges glances again with Major Draven before he answers, “Regrettably, yes.”

“That why we’re here,” Draven comes clean. “Privately, our leadership acknowledges that this will come to war. But not everyone will acknowledge or agree to that within our organization.”

“Why not?” Maul challenges.

“Because they want to exhaust all diplomatic means first. And if possible, we would like the Empire to be the aggressor.”

“So you can play the victim? So you can be the downtrodden and oppressed with the moral high ground?” Maul looks almost amused.

The Senator phrases it differently. “We are hoping to lay the predicate for a groundswell of support against the Empire when they finally cross a line.”

“What line is that?”

The Major makes a face and sighs. “That is yet another topic of debate . . .”

“Resolve it and I’ll make it happen,” Maul promises.

“Easier said than done,” Draven gripes.

“Does Palpatine have to arrest Senator Mothma? Does he need to disband the Senate?” Maul keeps spitting out possibilities. “Maybe give the regional governors direct control over their territories?”

“I personally think any of those acts would be sufficient,” Bail Organa volunteers. “But others feel differently.”

“Find your line in the sand and draw it,” Maul advises. “Then, we will bait the Empire into making it happen.”

“You really want war, don’t you?” the Senator accuses.

“I want change. And war brings change. Making speeches in the Senate is all well and good, but it changes nothing. We need action, not talk.”

“What action would you take?” Draven challenges.

“I would start a campaign of terror throughout the galaxy.”

“We are not terrorists,” the Senator huffs.

“Oh, you will deny it again and again. But even as you disavow the militants you claim you cannot control, you will support them covertly. Let them do what they want and keep your hands far enough away for plausible deniability. Each time they blow up some Imperial barracks, you will lament the loss of life and condemn the crime even as you condemn the Empire’s actions that precipitated it.”

“The Empire will see right through that.”

“Of course. We want them to. It will goad them into taking away the free press and the media platform they are giving you and Mothma in the Senate. We want them to disband the legislature and wipe away the last vestiges of the Old Republic. Trust me, Palpatine will task Vader with the matter and he will crack down hard. It will make your cause ripe. You will need to be ready to strike.”

Draven is listening. “Alright . . . what’s your timeframe on all this?”

“Two years . . . three years. Something like that. If you do it right.”

“What does that mean?”

“In addition to turning your militants loose, you need to build an army in secret. I can help with that.”

“Three years isn’t enough for clones,” Draven shakes his head.

“Who said anything about clones?”

“Battle droids?”

“No. Citizens. This will be an uprising. The will of the people asserting themselves,” Maul plays to his audience.

Senator Organa speaks up. “That won’t be enough. Vader’s got Jedi powers. The Emperor is rumored to have them as well.”

“He does,” Maul confirms.

“How do you know?” The Senator’s eyes narrow.

“Because I have Jedi powers too.”

“It’s true,” Draven confirms to his surprised colleague.

The Senator is suspicious now. “You’re not Jedi. I knew the Jedi leadership well.”

“Oh, no. I am definitely not Jedi,” Maul purrs coyly. Only Rhea in the room knows he is a secret Sith.

“Then who are you?” the Senator demands. “Because those skills aren’t exactly commonplace these days.”

“My mother was a witch from Dathomir. Our world was destroyed in the Clone Wars. But I remain, and her power lies in me now.”

“You’re a witch?” Draven half chokes.

The reaction earns him a yellow-eyed death glare that instantly quells the Major’s amusement.

“We were the Nightbrothers and Nightsisters of the Dathomir coven. We kept to ourselves until Sheev Palpatine came. He recognized a rival when he saw one. He made sure our world was destroyed.” Maul’s eyes slant over to the Senator and he adds, “Like he made sure your friends the Jedi were destroyed. He knew any Force users would be a threat to him. Senator, Emperor Palpatine is very powerful in the Force. It will take a Force user to kill him and his minion Vader.”

“And you’re volunteering to be that guy?” the Senator wants to know.

“Yes,” Maul confirms. “I will avenge my family and the genocide of my world.”

“He sounds like Saw Gerrera,” Draven grunts to his colleague.

Maul shrugs, “I don’t know this Gerrera, but I suspect I sound like any number of your supporters who are wronged and seek justice.”

Rhea enthusiastically nods to endorse this sentiment as Maul sits back in his chair and challenges, “Unless you know of some extra Jedi hanging around who will volunteer to come out of hiding, I am all you‘ve got.”

The Senator considers this before he divulges, “There are still Jedi around, but very few. I doubt they will join us until the time is right.”

Maul isn’t slow on the uptake. “I would love to meet them and we can discuss their involvement. Maybe plot a joint strategy.”

Bail Organa quashes that suggestion immediately. “That won’t be possible.”

Sharp Major Draven now asks a very astute question. “How is it that Vader hunts down every last remaining Jedi with his Inquisitors but you get to live? Why do you get a free pass, Maul?”

“The Emperor and Vader know who I am and what I know of the Force,” Maul answers truthfully. He shrugs. “I can only conclude that they deem me no threat since I have sat on the sidelines of their Jedi purge for years. That will all change with this plan, however.”

“They hunt Jedi because they deem them to be an existential threat,” Bail Organa reasons. “But you aren’t a potential rival because you are a crime lord? Is that it?”

“As I told Draven,” Maul responds, “I’m not looking to be Chancellor of a new Republic. I doubt a man with my background could get elected. No doubt Sheev Palpatine and Vader see it similarly.”

“Could you kill Vader?” Bail Organa asks rather pointedly.

“Absolutely,” Maul does not hesitate. “Draw him out and I will kill him. Vader’s a wreck under his suit and mask. A little Force lightning and I can take him,” he says with utmost confidence.

“And the Emperor?”

“One at a time, Senator,” Maul chides. “Now then,” he shifts gears, “Let us talk specifics. Rhea?”

That’s her cue to produce a small holoprojector. Maul activates it. It projects a three-dimensional map that rotates and highlights five system locations above the meeting table.

“I’m offering Sullust, Onderon, Neimoidia, Lothal, and Balmorra. Each location has easy ingress and egress, significant existing storage and hanger capacity, and minimal local police oversight. We can amass weaponry and a small fleet under the guise of my organization. We can also add to my stockpiles of hyperfuel and other supplies under the radar.”

“You’re proposing we build a small army and hide it amid Crimson Dawn?” the Senator surmises.

Draven’s already onboard but looking to better deal. “Are those five systems our only options?”

“They are your best options,” Maul answers back. “It’s a good ruse. You and your Senate friends will have complete deniability. The Empire won’t think to look for you with us. And if the local authorities do notice anything, they will see what they always see: Crimson Dawn personnel with Crimson Dawn equipment and assets. The local governments are already all on our payroll. If need be, we can increase the bribes. Your money guy can kick in the extra credits.”

“This is only a temporary solution,” the Major observes.

“Yes, but it gets us organized. We’ll eventually need to establish a central base of operations. But these locations will get us started while we work on a military strategy.”

The Senator sighs. “We can’t begin to match the firepower of the Empire.”

“You won’t have to for a guerrilla war,” Maul points out. “In asymmetrical warfare, you win by persisting and by rallying popular opinion.” He now hands the meeting over to her. “Rhea, walk them through the details.”

This is the moment she has practiced for. Rhea begins briefing the Senator and the Major on each of the Crimson Dawn sites that Maul is proposing to let the rebels use. She ticks through the twenty-minute presentation she practiced with the holoprojector. It details all the strategic advantages of Maul’s proposal. The information covers everything from traffic levels and Imperial patrol schedules on the nearest hyperspace lanes to the square footage of empty warehouse space that can be used to stockpile munitions and serve as hangar space. She even covers a timeline for construction of barracks to house new recruits to the cause.

“This is all well and good, but how can we ensure secrecy?” the Senator worries.

“My men are loyal,” Maul is unequivocal.

“Maybe so. But what’s to stop your competitors from selling you out? When your friends the Pikes come by to pick up shipments, they may notice a few things.”

“These five sites are self-contained. We do no commerce with others there beyond basic supply shipments. There will be no competitors dropping in,” Maul assures.

“And what’s to stop you from selling us out to the Empire?” It’s Major Draven playing the heckling cynic, as usual.

“I have a lot of skin in the game here,” Maul points out. “And since I will be one of your leadership, I can hardly claim to be an arm’s length business partner with no knowledge of your intent when you used my facilities.”

“About that," the Senator begins. "Maul, we are less formal in our decision making than you believe. We consult with a select group of political leaders and business backers, but there is no leadership council.”

“Then you need one,” Maul retorts bluntly. “You need to get organized with a chain of command and a governing body. And you need more than Senators and business types with deep pockets. You need military advisors like Draven here as well. People with practical skills for war. You will all need to work in concert in order to succeed.”

This is evidently a sore point. Bail Organa shifts in his chair as he relates, “Senator Mothma and I have talked about creating a more formal structure from time to time. We see the wisdom of your suggestion, but others are not as keen to take that step.”

“Then they can stand aside,” Maul sniffs, “and let the rest of us move forward. Continue with that approach too long and you will be hamstrung by consensus decision-making like the old Republic Senate. Organa, you will prove the Empire’s case for totalitarian leadership by your own inefficiency.”

Alderaan’s Senator bristles. “Those are harsh words, Maul.”

“You’re the politician here, not me. I don’t sugarcoat things.”

“We’ve noticed,” Major Draven deadpans.

“My offer is contingent on leadership at the highest levels. That’s non-negotiable,” Maul sets his terms.

“Understood,” Bail Organa confirms.

“Is there anything else to cover today?” Maul asks.

“I think you’ve given us a lot to think about,” the Senator takes the cue to end the meeting.

Everyone stands and Major Draven immediately engages Maul in a private sidebar discussion. Strangely enough, those two men seem to understand one another. They put their heads together across the room and begin trying to impress each another with their detailed knowledge of the Clone Wars Outer Rim Sieges. Major Draven fought that war, unlike Maul who watched it. He was clearly a very keen observer from afar however. Rhea is starting to suspect that Maul is still a very close follower of galactic politics. For decades now, she guesses, he has watched his father’s every public move from a distance. Every time he sees the nightly holonet news recap, it must feel like a slap in the face.

The Major’s detailed conversation with her boss leaves Rhea alone with Senator Organa. “How long have you worked for Maul?” he asks her to make conversation.

“I’ve been Crimson Dawn for almost eleven years now.” She says it like she always does, with a mix of pride and regret. Rhea has conflicted feelings about the gang that does many things she finds distasteful but which also provides the security and belonging she needs. She’s aware that while the gang severely limits her, it might have saved her from a worse fate. Like everything in life, Crimson Dawn has its advantages and disadvantages. Joining might not have been her best decision, but it’s way too late to get out now.

“You must have been awfully young. Is that the age Maul always recruits?” the Senator asks with a frown.

She hears the censure behind his tone. It makes her defensive. “I was a war orphan living on the streets. Crimson Dawn gave me a home.”

Bail Organa’s eyes dart across the room to Maul. “They’re a rough crowd, I hear.”

“They have always had my back when I needed it.” Rhea thinks now of Mrs. Nettles with the flashburn to her leg that the gang paid to heal and rehabilitate. Sure, the housekeeper probably wouldn’t have been shot in the first place had she not been at Maul’s headquarters. But the gang had her back when she needed it. Even supporting her choice to go against the doctor’s orders.

Bail Organa studies Rhea some more. “Is it true you can’t get out?”

“Yes.”

“Do they tell you that upfront?”

“Yes.”

“It’s like indentured servitude then.”

“No.” She looks the Senator in the eye and corrects him. “It’s like a family.”

He looks dubious of this claim, but says nothing. It’s his privilege showing. Because this Senator who is married to a queen has probably enjoyed a life full of opportunities. He’s never had to make choices he didn’t like because didn’t have better options. Guys like this Senator think that people like her ought to pull themselves up out of poverty. They believe in the ladder up and promote social programs and student loan legislation to encourage that path. If only everyone else could see the benefits of their example, they too could make something of themselves. As well intentioned as they are, these people are blind to all the ways that their advantages supported, encouraged, and reinforced their own choices. Rhea would probably have felt the same way herself had the war not changed her personal circumstances so dramatically.

Maybe had she been twenty-six instead of sixteen at the time, she would have had the emotional maturity to make it on her own. But the grieving, homeless orphan who was shuttled between group homes craved stability and security more than anything. Crimson Dawn provides that even if the cost is high.

This topic is hard for her. It gets her flustered and emotional. And to make matters worse, Bail Organa weirdly reminds her of her dad who Rhea knows would feel exactly the same way as the Senator. So, she makes her case. “Maul has never been anything but encouraging to me . . . and sometimes kind.”

“Kind? That’s not his reputation.” As usual, this Senator is good-natured when he disagrees. He counters with a smile that is sincere but also grates. It’s a politician’s practiced charm at work, she senses.

Indignant and loyal Rhea digs in. “Yes, well, he would deny it. But it’s true.”

The Senator says nothing but his face shows more skepticism. And is that pity as well?

Rhea lifts her chin. “That might not be everyone’s experience with Maul, but it has been mine. He’s giving me this chance because he knows how important this is to me. He knows how much I resent the Emperor. How much I want change.” Recalling now that she’s supposed to be Maul’s character witness in this meeting, Rhea continues, “Maul wants change as well. He’s risking a lot with what he’s offering you.”

“Do many others in your organization feel the same way?” the Senator probes.

Rhea doesn’t honestly know. They don’t talk politics much around the compound. But she knows the general ethos of her brethren. “Our people are a cross section of the galaxy. They probably have different political views on specific things, but no one has any love for the Empire, I can promise you that.”

“If we try out your scheme, we could be undone by loose lips.”

On this point, Rhea is very certain. “Senator, no one in Crimson Dawn is a snitch. Maul makes sure of that.”

“I suppose that’s reassuring. We have a lot to lose.”

“So do we,” she reminds him. “Maul’s betting a lot on this revolution. It could ruin him and then everyone in Crimson Dawn will suffer. Senator, that’s a lot of people.” Not that anyone will care, she knows. Everyone from Marisol to Maul’s enforcers will be lumped together as equally culpable criminals for whom many will have no sympathy.

“Rhea.” It’s Maul beckoning to her from across the room. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

She nods to her acknowledge her boss. Then, worried that she has come off as peevish or immature, Rhea once again endeavors to mimic her ever tactful mother. “Senator, I know that you did not expect to find allies who smuggle spice and traffic women. I understand that you and your leadership would prefer not to deal with Crimson Dawn.”

“That’s true,” he allows.

“We come from different perspectives in life and maybe different values as well. But we can still agree on a common goal. Isn’t that the point of galactic democracy?” she argues softly. “That different species and different cultures and different systems all work together for the common good?”

The Senator nods thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“You don’t need to approve of what we do in order to accept our help,” she urges.

“We do, however, need to trust you,” he points out.

She looks over and sees Maul waiting and watching. “Goodbye, Senator,” Rhea tells Bail Organa as she offers her hand. She’s trying to be as poised and polished as possible. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

The Senator nods and shakes her hand. “Tell your boss that Draven will be in touch soon. And Rhea—“

“Yes.”

“I know a little about the plight of war orphans. My wife and I adopted our daughter at the war’s end. She was an orphan.”

“What is she now?”

“She’s our crown princess,” he smiles.

“How nice,” Rhea responds softly. For here again is the unfairness of life. By accident of fate, one girl ends up royalty and another ends up in a gang.

“Rhea, come,” Maul orders in his quiet way. He has a raspy whisper that is never loud but always carries. Rhea immediately comes to heel at his side. He pulls up his hood now to exit and Rhea mimics the gesture with the hood of her fancy day gown. Then together, they stride from the room with as much dignity as possible. 

“You did well, little one,” Maul commends now that they are alone. “What was Organa telling you there at the end?”

“That he and his wife adopted a war orphan for a daughter. He’s a nice man,” she observes even though she doesn’t actually like him.

“Uhmmmm . . . that one knows far more than he’s letting on,” Maul decides. “He upset you. No, do not deny it. I felt your pain in the Force.”

“I guess he reminded me of my father,” Rhea explains glumly.

“What was your father’s name?”

“Silas Cardulla. He was a businessman on Ryloth.”

“Would you like me to find him?”

“Find him?” The unexpected offer takes her by surprise. She’s touched by Maul’s generosity even as she declines that lost dream. “I tried years ago. I think he’s dead.”

Maul is unwillingly to accept that answer. “I have men who hunt Jedi living in hiding. They can hunt down your father as well. If he’s alive, they will find him. Either way, you will know the truth.”

“No,” she again quickly refuses. It’s irrational, she knows, but she’s feeling a bit panicky now. “Maul, please don’t--it’s probably better this way. If he’s alive, he won’t know what I have become . . . ” She’s truly choked up now. Blinking back a rush of tears suddenly.

Maul says nothing as they walk towards his ship. He just offers her his gloved hand that she accepts. For he understands. They have a shared sense of abandonment by their lost fathers. Hers is accidental and his is intentional. But either way, it is a wellspring of unresolved hurt. 

They also share a deep sense of shame, which surfaces now too. “Maybe in a few years if we succeed in this rebellion and we are heroes, I will search for him again,” she supposes. “Someday when he can be proud of me . . .“

Maul squeezes her hand. “Little one, this revolution could be the redemption for us both,” he predicts.

She hopes so. She wants to do something good with her life. To believe that her meandering path—like Maul’s own long, hard fall from grace—will eventually culminate in something important. Rhea wants to matter, like she knows Maul wants as well.

“Your thoughts betray you,” he tells her softly. And as she flushes, Maul squeezes her hand again in solidarity.

A thought occurs to her now. “If they go for it—”

“They will go for it.”

“Then all of their military resources will be housed at our facilities.”

“I’m sure that will dawn on them eventually,” Maul allows, “but preferably once they have no other good options.” One yellow eye winks at her. “If this rebellion falls apart from infighting down the line, they will have built me an army with old Darth Plagueis’ credits.”

Rhea shoots him a look. “Are you planning to sow discord in their ranks? Like you do with the Hutts?”

“We shall see, we shall see,” he equivocates with a devious smirk. “A Sith always keeps his options open. Perhaps I will lead this rebel alliance after all,” he muses.

Hours later, Rhea is back in her uniform presenting dinner to Maul in his private office. “Good evening, Sir. Is there news?” She’s dying to know if the rebels have responded.

“Not yet,” he dashes her hopes. “But they’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she frets as she sets down his tray.

Maul gets up from his desk. “I have something for you.” A coy little smile tugs at his lips. Blink and you’ll miss it, but Rhea doesn’t.

“Sir, did you buy me another dress?” she guesses.

“As a matter of fact, I did. It’s in there.” Maul gestures through the door behind his desk that leads to an adjoining room. He waves a hand and the lights in the darkened room turn on with the Force. “Go put it on. Show it to me,” he invites.

Rhea can’t help but feel a tingle of excitement. It’s been a long time since she had surprises in her life. Good surprises, that is. And she can’t remember the last time anyone gave her anything other than a token gift. Certainly nothing as extravagant as Maul has. So she flashes a girlish smile and hurries through the door into the next room. And that’s when she stops short.

It’s his bedroom.

This is very personal space. Visitors clearly are not anticipated. For at first glance, the room resembles a larger version of Maul’s messy desk next door, with datafiles and datapads strewn across most every surface. The fancy boots he wears for important meetings lie discarded by a chair. Beside the chair is a towel that looks to have been dropped and forgotten long ago. There is a lot of strange looking equipment on one wall that looks almost medical in nature to Rhea’s untrained eye. But by far the dominant sight in the room is Maul’s giant—and unmade—bed. From the looks of it, his sheets could use a wash, she notes. But that’s not why she’s here. Right now, she’s not a housemaid. She’s a Crimson Dawn lieutenant on special assignment for treason. And Maul has bought her another disguise to wear to meet the rebels.

On the foot of the bed sits a garment bag with the logo of the boutique they shopped at on Canto Bight. He bought her another dress, as promised. Rhea hurries to reveal it. Inside the garment bag, she finds the cocktail dress she modeled for Maul along with the shoes she tried on. She’s puzzled as she holds up the chic dress with the daring high slit and open back. For this is the outfit that Maul had rejected so vehemently. She had felt very humiliated at the time.

“You were beautiful in that one . . . just beautiful.” Maul is standing in the doorway watching her confusion.

She whirls, still holding up the dress. “I thought you hated it . . . “

“I loved it. So, I bought it. Put it on.”

Rhea nods slowly as she watches him withdraw. He’s giving her privacy, she realizes. He even goes so far as to shut the door behind him. It’s a vaguely gentlemanly gesture.

Rhea turns her attention back to the dress, spreading it across her form over her uniform. She remembers how upset Maul had been with how she looked in the shop. He had exploded at the salesgirl who kept inadvertently putting her foot in her mouth. But honestly, the whole time Rhea herself hadn’t known what to think. She too had been wondering what Maul’s intentions were.

But afterwards, he explained his objective for the whole episode. The fancy clothes were a way to establish her credibility and to bolster his. There was never anything more to it than that. But because he kissed her on the cheek once, she had worried over nothing. A kiss on the cheek is as chaste as a kiss can get, after all. It’s the kiss a father gives his daughter. A kiss a son gives his mother. Not a kiss you give a lover.

But here again is that same dress. This time, Maul says he likes it and wants her to put it on.

She can’t refuse. Moreover, she doesn’t want to refuse. Because Maul is the first man who has ever called her beautiful since the scar. He has called her pretty before . . . but beautiful. That’s a whole new level.

She believes he’s sincere, even if he’s wrong. And that’s not just because she trusts him. It’s because she knows he’s fine with the scar. He treats both halves of her face the same, unlike many people who choose to stare only at the good side. Rhea has become very observant of all the polite ways people deal with her unsettling disfigurement. But Maul never does that. He stands on both sides of her. He’s even touched the scar. Yes, he was curious at the time but he had also been concerned. Asking her if it hurt before he commented on his own injury. 

Alarm bells are going off in her head as she begins to undress. She chooses to ignore them. Well, maybe she encourages them as she wonders. Is Maul about to barge through the door to find her in nothing but panties? Will he drag her to bed? Is this all just a ploy to get her undressed in advance? She fears . . . and some small part of her hopes.

For as terrifying as that scenario is, some tiny persistent bit of it is deliciously thrilling. Because Maul is the only man who has ever found her attractive, not despite the scar but with it. And the thought of being seduced by the crime lord Sith prince of Crimson Dawn sounds like something out of a fairytale. A fairytale in which the wronged, orphan damsel in distress who has come down on her luck finds an improbable hero to rescue her. But he endangers her too as she slips from being in a notorious violent gang to plotting treason with famous Senators. For this man is dangerous . . . and that’s part of his allure.

He’s got a tragic backstory to merit his violent streak. He wears a regal crown of horns that make him one part devil and one part prince. He’s out for revenge even as he plots revolution and promises freedom. It’s a mess of ulterior motives and contradictions, but she’s smitten. Those soulful yellow eyes get her every time. No matter how dismissive and cruel he can be, Rhea would follow him to the ends of the galaxy to hear him call her beautiful and mean it. And if he treats her like a daughter in some ways, she fine with it. She’ll even call him Daddy if he wants it. In fact, she might like that.

But Maul never comes through the door. Rhea dons the black dress and straps on the red crystal sandals. She takes her time. She even takes a few tentative steps to reacquaint herself with how to walk in four-inch heels. They make her feel much taller. More important and powerful. Like a woman who meets with Senators. There’s no mirror in the room to inspect how she looks. So Rhea gives the dress one last smooth over her hips and does her best to walk gracefully next door. That’s enough stalling.

Maul is sitting on the couch. Rather than preparing to rush into the bedroom for a forced seduction, he is rather prosaically eating his dinner. He’s got his right knee up with his mechanical foot resting on the edge of the low table as he spoons in his dinner rapidly. This man is hungry for something other than sex, it seems. His casual demeanor instantly sets Rhea more at ease. What was she thinking?? How silly can she be? Her girlish fantasies now seem utterly ridiculous.

Feeling foolish, blushing Rhea stands tentatively on the threshold. Maul beckons her forward with a rare smile. “Let me look at you.”

Maybe another woman would be offended to be so objectified. That woman would feel demeaned to be praised for her appearance and not her talents and intellect. But not Rhea. She’s inwardly pleased and grateful that anyone even noticed.

“It really is n-nice,” she stammers as she watches him put down his plate. She has his full attention now. Those bloodshot yellow eyes of his are intent. And yet, also inscrutable.

They lock eyes and Rhea’s heart skips a beat. Suddenly, those girlish fantasies come flooding back.

“It’s shorter,” she says because she fills compelled to fill the silence. “That tailor droid must have taken it up like the lady suggested. And the slit . . .” Her hand wanders ostensibly to smooth the fabric but really she’s pushing it together self-consciously.

“Turn around,” he rasps. “Slowly. Let me see.”

She does her best to execute a slow twirl. It makes her lekku sway with the movement, so she reaches up to smooth them. The unconscious gesture is a mistake because the dress is very low cut. There is comparatively more sternum and slight cleavage showing than there is fabric. Her movement dislodges the meager bodice somewhat and now Rhea’s hands are busy righting it. Evidently this is a dress that requires excellent posture at all times and maybe some of that double-sided tape the saleslady had whispered about.

Maul says nothing. He just watches her awkwardness intently. It makes her flush harder.

Finally, he starts talking. “You are just as beautiful in that dress as I remember.”

She’s not beautiful and they both know it. “Thank you,” she answers stiffly. “That is kind of you to say—“

“I am never kind.”

She disagrees silently.

Maul stands now and approaches. It makes her even more nervous. She shifts her weight and comments inanely, “I’m so tall in these shoes . . . ”

He smirks. “You were up to my chest before. Now, you’re up to my shoulder.”

It’s true, she sees, as she measures herself against him standing close. He’s in her space. It’s almost the proximity for a kiss.

“When you come each night, I want you to put on this dress. I want to see you beautiful just for me. Do you understand?”

Befuddled Rhea shakes her head yes automatically.

He reaches up to trail a hand slowly down her left lekku. He did this once before the same way. His touch is firm and warm, just like she remembers. It’s unmistakably a caress and Rhea can’t help it—she gives a little involuntary shudder. For a Twi’lek’s lekku are very sensitive.

Maul’s feral eyes are positively gleaming now. He looks like a predator in the night stalking his unsuspecting prey. Except Rhea’s not afraid. If anything, she is more drawn to Maul than ever. Is he going to kiss her? Rhea hasn’t been kissed since she was fifteen years old playing a stupid teenage game at a party. She barely remembers the kiss—it was that underwhelming. Mostly, it was sloppy and short. But something tells her that Maul’s kiss won’t be like that.

“They are soft, like you are,” he comments on her lekku. “Stay soft, little one. Stay Light.”

Again, she nods automatically. “Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Maul,” he corrects her.

Eager to please, she repeats “Maul” softly.

Abruptly, he frowns. “Go put back on your uniform,” he instructs as he turns away. He stalks back to his desk now, putting several meters between them. “I have work to do tonight. I can’t be distracted.”

“Yes, Sir,” she yelps as she hurries to comply. When she emerges dressed as usual, he doesn’t bother to look up. He must be very focused on his work. Either that, or he seeing her in that dress put him in a bad mood again for some reason.

Rhea stands there lingering a moment until he dismisses her. “That will be all.”


	12. chapter 12

There are secret places, Dark places, scattered throughout the galaxy. They are Dark for what happened there, for who lived and who died there, and for the random skew of the universe in general. This secluded lair is one of those places for all of those reasons.

Maul closes his eyes as he inhales and savors the concentration of power. The Force is strong with this place. Strong and Dark. It feels intense and thrilling. And also, bittersweet.

He would come here more often were it less personally painful. But this Dark place is not just any old historic temple. It is his Dark place, and that makes it fraught with hard emotions.

This is the sacred inner sanctum of the Nightsister coven. This lair is where for countless generations the Witches of Dathomir conducted their rituals. They passed secrets from mother to daughter, keeping the old ways alive and vibrant lest they be lost. Worshiping the Shadow Force that nurtured and protected them from the Light here on a backwater world where they kept to themselves.

This is where his own Mother Witch salvaged his broken psyche and repaired his ravaged body. She sent him off again into the universe as a rogue Sith equally hellbent on revenge and redemption. I love you, my son. You are Dathomir’s prince, lost and then lost again, but found. Go forth and do great things. He remembers kissing Mother goodbye. Then, she told him what she did not have the time to tell him one last time before she died: I will be with you always.

Mother was a wily woman, as wise as she was paranoid and secretive. She was a match in every way for Darth Sidious. And that is why this last surviving Nightbrother-turned-Sith Lord comes back here from time to time seeking her counsel.

No one’s ever really gone. Not if they are as powerful as Mother Talzin.

He quiets his mind and focuses his rage. He is angry, so angry at what has befallen him and his homeworld. He is all who survive and he demands that the Force yield Dathomir’s last Mother Witch to him now. Chanting a spell he first learned as a small child, he draws upon the old magic that lingers in this magnificent ruin to commune with her spirit.

“Mother? Mother, come forth.” It’s both a command and a plea. “Mother, I need you.” He wants to tell her what he plots.

But there is nothing.

He tries again. He is deep in concentration, combining a Sith’s skill at channeling emotions into power with a Nightbrother’s natural connection to Dark mysticism. His Master might turn his nose up at the witches’ ways, but their charms and spells work. Now, as he beckons to the netherworld of the Shadow Force, it yields what he seeks. For without fail, Darkness rewards its faithful servant.

He feels the metaphysical connection open moments before he spies the strange green ether that signifies the occult at work. Just the mental feel of this lost Dark magic is nostalgic for him. It brings hot tears to his eyes and dredges up long repressed memories of warm, firm arms about him as a small child. Of whispers in his ear that there is nothing to be afraid of. That Darkness contains nothing but what you take with you when you confront it. This power is a mirror, not a magnifying glass, Mother taught. Use it to discover truth and then confront that truth. For all is as the Force wills.

Mother was devout like that. Proud of her abilities but grateful that the Force had chosen her to wield them. She was the last in a long tradition of talented women who the almost exclusively male Sith disdained as purveyors of superstition. They were wrong, of course. Mother’s power ran deep.

His concentration wavers now. He senses the connection ebb and begin to slip away.

“Mother, please try,” he wails in panic. “I need you. Be with me.”

He clamps down hard on the connection, trying to hold fast. Is she doing the same? She is. Wherever she is, Mother hears him and wants to help.

“My sssssson . . .” The greeting is a hiss in his mind. And, yes, that’s Mother’s voice. He is filled with relief.

His words come out in a rush of news. “Mother, I have found my way again. Kenobi can wait. I am going to overthrow Father. I will either get our revenge or reclaim my rightful place.”

Mother responds in halting gasps in the Force. She’s trying hard to communicate, but it’s difficult even for one as powerful as she. It’s a warning. “Do not . . . underestimate . . . the Emperor . . . or suffer your brother’s fate . . . you will . . .”

He disagrees. “He won’t kill me. He couldn’t bring himself to do it before, and I don’t believe he’ll do it now.”

Father loves him, even if he punishes him still. The hurt is so great on both sides of their rift because the care is so great as well. For no one can hurt you like someone you love. As Mother always said, hate is not the negation of love. Indifference is. And Father would not have shown him mercy on Mandalore were he indifferent.

“My sssson . . .”

“Yes?? Yes, Mother?” he yelps. Just the sound of her voice in his head reduces him to a mere child again. A child stolen away one day without explanation. It was years before he would learn the truth of why.

“Beware the Jedi Vader . . . “

He rushes to reveal his plans for Vader now lest he lose the connection again. “I’m going to kill him! He will die and maybe Father will die and—“

“Beware the Jedi Vader . . . Find Kenobi . . . There is another . . . Sky. . . walker . . .”

“Where is Kenobi? Mother, tell me, please!” Does she know where his nemesis hides? And did she hear his new plan? He tries again. “Forget Kenobi. Mother, I am going to overthrow Father—“

“Vader will be weak for him. He will be his un . . . do . . . ing.”

“Weak for who? Mother, tell me! Send me a vision and show me!”

“He will be weak for him like I was weak for you, my sssson. My beloved sssson . . . "

"Yes?? Mother, don't leave! Don't leave me yet!"

She’s slipping away again. Her voice becomes a distant echo in his mind now. "Beware Vader . . . Skywalker was begotten . . . not made . . ."

And then, he is alone again. Mother is gone back to the Force she loves. Hopefully, Savage and Feral are there as well. And also, all of Mother’s beloved Nightsister flock who she affectionately referred to as her daughters even though Mother, like all Mother Witches, only birthed sons.

Her exit leaves him alone again. Alone with only a Force blind housemaid and an untrustworthy exiled Sith Master for conspirators. Will it be enough? Only the Force knows.

“Mother, I miss you,” he says aloud into the empty aftermath of her visitation. She can’t hear him, but he says it anyway. “Mother, I love you. Please guide me.”

He needs her help. He’s disappointed that Mother did not react directly to what he told her. Instead, she was trying to urge him on his path to kill Kenobi. Beware the Jedi Vader? What does that mean? What exactly has Mother foreseen? And what does it mean to be ‘begotten not made’? Maul files that riddle away for now.

He lingers long moments further in the Nightsister lair. Wondering if he should build a Sith temple here to commemorate the spot. Or would that anger Mother to know that her attackers claimed her lair for themselves? 

It is a hard thing for him to bridge both traditions. Did Mother know that the Sith were ascendant when Sheev Palpatine came? Is that why she let his Master keep him? Did she plot that in the end a Nightbrother born of the old ways would ultimately become the Sith Master to rule the galaxy? How he wishes he knew his destiny. But life is not a book where you can read the last chapter first. Besides, the future is always in motion, especially for a Force user like himself.

The Sith teach that Force users are agents of change. That they disrupt the natural way of things with their demigod powers. It’s why other Force users are potential threats. His Master never subscribed to Plagueis’ theories that the Force itself will intervene, if necessary, to strike back at a Force user who thwarts its will. Crazy Plagueis with his ever-evolving theory of balance didn’t sit well with Darth Sidious. Sheev Palpatine had a very simple objective: kill all who could possibly oppose him. Then by default, he would become the sole instrument of the Force.

He might be right, Maul knows. But only if that Jedi Chosen One legend is wrong. Anakin Skywalker has been a wildcard all along, which of course is why Father took him as his Apprentice. But with the erstwhile Skywalker a broken husk of his former self as Darth Vader, Maul had pretty much relegated that prophecy to the dustbin of history. But now Mother suddenly warns him of Vader and that gets his attention.

It bears some reflection in meditation, he decides. But not now that the news is fresh. And not here amid the cool mossy stillness of the remains of the coven sanctuary.

Mother’s verdant locus of power contrasts so starkly with his Master’s love of sleek, chic technology. Mother found Darkness in the natural world, amid the fierce, often violent, and always amoral struggle of a species to survive. She taught that Darkness is inborn and eternal, as much as part of life as the Force itself. Ultimately, she saw Darkness as a life strategy and not a goal. Mother was far removed from the sometimes near-nihilism of the Sith. And she looked more often to the past for guidance than to the future.

His father, by contrast, reveled in the artificial world. In the trappings of power, in the wonders of technology, and in his goal of a Sith Empire reborn. He would fulfill Darth Bane’s vision and usher in a new era. And he would do it with cunning and a lot of machinery. From battle droids to human slave soldiers born in laboratories to his dream of a planet-sized weapon that could destroy entire systems, Sheev Palpatine was prepared to harness all things unnatural for the cause of Darkness.

And whereas Father’s purview was politics, Mother concerned herself with personal matters. She ruled over the coven she loved with a steel fist in a velvet glove. But make no mistake—that fist could pound. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, especially a Nightsister. Mother Talzin was a formidable enemy. But she was also a loyal parent. On Dathomir, allegiance was tribal and there was shame in betrayal. It was very unlike the Sith who relish such treachery. And in that respect, Maul thinks he is more Nightbrother than Sith Lord. For like the tattoos Mother gave him, that ethos stuck permanently as well. Family and clan matter.

It’s why still to this day he finds it hard to walk alone. There is no coven now, no Nightbrother village of extended kinship, no blood brothers left alive, and no father Sith Master in his life. What he has is a poor replicate he calls a gang. They are organized for enterprise, not fellowship. He has little in common with those he commands. While Maul has respect for several and quiet admiration for some, he has no true equals among Crimson Dawn. Certainly not in young Rhea who he has decided to mentor because it’s a good excuse to be around her. 

Rhea’s idealism and enthusiasm feel good. It reminds him of his long ago self. Of young Lord Maul who dared anything and everything before he met his comeuppance. But Rhea isn’t motivated by glory. It’s more like desperation. But that resonates with him as well. As bizarre as it seems given their differing ages, experiences, and status, he thinks that he and Rhea understand one another. That helps. Because with Rhea as a hapless, if eager sidekick, he’s no longer so alone. If she had the Force, he would train her. But that’s not an option. All she has is belief in the rebel cause and belief in him. That will have to suffice for now.

It is a problem endemic to his creed. For the error bred in the bone of each Sith is that he craves what he cannot have: not universal love, but to be loved alone. Contrast that with the foolish Jedi maxim that we must love one another or die. The Sith have long known what the Jedi refused to acknowledge: that you die anyway, so make this fleeting life worth your while. Do something that matters in the scheme of things. Aim high.

That’s what he’s attempting now. It’s what he wants Mother to know. That her mortal sacrifice was not in vain because he is Darth Maul again and he will do great things.

He takes one last long look around and then leaves. Time for the two-mile hike back through the worst of the battle wreckage to the compound he calls home. He’s almost to the landing platform when he looks up to see a ship descending.

It’s a familiar ship. Here is an unexpected visitor. Darth Plagueis the Wise has come to pay a social call.

He waits for the ship to land and its ramp to deploy. Then, impatient from cooling his heels and intrigued to know what the Muun has come to say, Maul strides fast up the ramp before his visitor can disembark. Inside, the gleaming cruiser yacht looks as luxurious as the outside promises. And it’s big. Maul rambles around the ship, surprising a few crewmen before he discovers Darth Plagueis. 

The zombie Sith lives large, Maul sees, as he casts his eyes about the sumptuous lounge area where the mogul Muun sits in a comfortable sprawl. His customary black robes are carelessly askew, revealing a fanciful patterned hidden silk lining that makes Maul blink. That’s unexpected. The scantily clad Togruta woman who shimmies out of Plagueis’ lap, however, is not. Father always said that his Master was a ladies’ man. Plagueis once stole a Jedi woman for a lover just to see if he could get away with it, he recalls Father complaining with complete disapproval.

But now, Plagueis trails a lingering hand after his current companion as she stands. She shoots the Muun a coy look and he slaps her playfully on the ass in response. “Leave us, my lady,” the Muun requests with an oily charm that Maul finds to be gross. He is certain that this obnoxious display between the two is for his benefit. Irritated that the ugly undead Muun is still romancing women when he himself cannot, Maul rolls his eyes. Twice. 

Plagueis ignores him. He gestures expansively. “Welcome aboard. Couldn’t wait to see me, I take it?”

Maul crosses his arms and plants his feet territorially. “This is my home. I should be the one welcoming you.”

  
  
“I don’t feel very welcome. With that charge up my ramp, I was half expecting you to light your sword.”

  
  
“Did you ever even learn to swing a sword?” Maul wonders aloud. He’s curious. Consummate mastermind though he was of the Clone Wars, Darth Plagueis was something of a cypher during the years he was training. By that time, Darth Sidious hated his Master intensely and spoke of him as little as possible.

  
  
“Yes, I know how to swing a sword.” The mangled Sith Master shoots him an appraising look. “Is that a challenge to a duel?” His yellow eyes are snapping. Like he’s hoping the answer is yes.

  
  
“That could be fun,” Maul allows coolly.

  
  
“Only if by fun you refer to losing,” Plagueis snorts. “Are those new legs?” his uninvited visitor inquires with a nasty smirk. “You look taller. Or maybe I should say less short than before.”

  
  
He’s not short. He grew average height for a Zabrak. But, yes, his current legs gave him a few inches. Because if you have to get cut in half, you might as well make some improvements. But feeling pricked, Maul sneers, “When are you getting a new ear?”

  
  
The Muun laughs. He’s unconcerned. “What’s left works. I hear you just fine. I also hear that you’ve been pitching a scheme to my rebel friends and you brought your girlfriend along.”

  
  
“She’s not my girlfriend.”

  
  
“Well, good. Where is she?” Plagueis starts needling him some more. “My offer still stands for your little lady with two faces to come to work for me.”

  
  
“Drop it, Plagueis,” Maul growls. The Muun’s got that hot Togruta after all. Does Plagueis think he’s entitled to all the pretty women in the galaxy? That would be just like him. And look at him, lounging around like some nasty old rich pervert. Before Maul can stop himself, he stakes his claim to Rhea, “She’s mine.”

  
  
“Oh, I approve of the matter, never fear, I approve,” the Sith Master chortles. “I gather she was very good at virtue signaling for you with Organa.” 

When he bristles some more, Plagueis raises a forestalling clawed hand. “Now, don’t get testy. I don’t blame you for bringing a pretty prop along to do your moral preening for you. I myself loathe that sort of thing. My commitment to deception only goes so far,” he sniffs. “Sometimes, it’s hard to keep a straight face around all those righteous, emoting rebels.”

Whatever. Maul wants to know why Plagueis is here. “What did they tell you?”

  
  
“That you’re every bit the bona fide thug they thought you would be. Organa found you downright rude. But he also found your offer is too good to refuse.”

  
  
“They are a disorganized mess.”

  
  
“Yes, and lucky for you, they know it. Moreover, Draven thinks you hang the moon strategically and that matters. Mothma listens to him.”

  
  
“What about Organa?”

  
  
“He’s a war hawk who pretends to be a dove. He makes nice to all the half-committed types while Mothma is the steely one. Organa hides behind all that Alderaan ‘we have no weapons’ talk.”

  
  
“Does that mean you are here with a counteroffer?”

  
  
“Ah, my boy, Sheev always said you had excellent instincts,” Plagueis approves. 

It’s praise and condescension combined. But whatever. “Get to the point.”

“Organa wants to try your plan at a single location to see how it works. He wants a trial period to feel out the proposal and to feel out you, Lord Maul. In return for your lesser commitment of resources, he will offer you co-leadership of the soon-to-be-formed insurgent military.”

“Co-leadership with who?”

“Draven.”

  
  
He frowns. His answer is immediate and blunt. “Hard pass. I want authority at the highest levels.”

  
  
“Yes, that is the plan,” Plagueis plots. “But in this, you may have to better deal yourself incrementally. Start creating an army while you get the rebel militants organized and under your wing. Lead by example for why the politicos should do the same.”

His eyes narrow. “Who really controls this new rebel military?”

  
  
“De facto you, I hope. But nominally a handful of Senators.”

  
  
“Who are?”

“The usual suspects. Organa, Mothma, Nower Jebel, Tynnra Pamlo, and Garm del Iblis.”

Maul fumes. He’s no fan of the liberal wing of the Imperial Senate. “Iblis is probably the only decent leader of that bunch.”

Plagueis doesn’t disagree. “I will push for the trial run at three sites, not one. And since I’m staking the credits, I ought to have some sway.”

“Make it all five sites,” Maul counters. There’s no point in dipping his toe into treason. When you’re in, you’re all in. The risk is the same either way. The tepid, timid rebels are just slowing things down. 

“I’ll do my best to argue your case,” Plagueis nods. “But you will need to argue it well to Mon Mothma in person yourself next week. Draven will be contacting you with the details.”

“Good.” Maul is relieved that he will finally get to meet the rebel ringleader herself. 

He looks thoughtfully to Plagueis now. “Who are you to the rebels? Is it Venamis this time?” Maul uses the name of the rival Plagueis slew long ago to secure his own spot as Apprentice. Plagueis lives under that man’s name all these years later in exile, though like many Sith Lords, Plagueis has any number of aliases that check out. He was most famously the head of the Banking Clan Hego Damask when Maul was the Apprentice. Mostly, young Darth Maul had viewed his Master’s Master from afar in the press like the rest of the public. They only developed their current tense rapport after they were both consigned to exile.

“These days,” the devious Muun drawls, “I am Prince Venamis, a sad but very rich financier who lost his wife and son in a hyperspace accident.”

Maul grunts at that cheesy cover story. A Sith ought not be so sentimental.

“Bereft father and widower that I am, I commit my resources to freeing the galaxy from the clutches of Sheev Palpatine.”

“Revenge,” Maul observes knowingly. 

“Revenge,” Plagueis confirms. Yellow eyes meet yellow eyes with complete understanding.

Maul now shifts gears. “Tell me about Vader. Is it true that he was begotten not made?” He’s asking because he’s curious to hear what Plagueis will say.

“Who told you that?” His host sits forward on the couch. He has the old Muun’s full attention now. 

“The Force.”

Plagueis frowns. “Was it a vision?”

“A visitation.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes. She sees all in the Force,” Maul leans on the point and watches suave, uber confident Plagueis frown again. 

“What she says is true,” the Muun allows. “Lord Vader was begotten, not made in the Force.”

He probes around some more now, hoping for additional information: “The Jedi called him the Chosen One . . . ”

Darth Plagueis declines to comment. “We shall see, we shall see,” he equivocates before he stonewalls. “Even wise Mother Talzin cannot know with certainty the will of the Force.”

Maul drops the point . . . for now. 

“Lord Maul,” the Muun gets back to the topic at hand, “Do not squander this opportunity with Mothma. Do not be impatient as you work to earn her trust. I know you are in a hurry to subvert Lord Sidious. But we must do it properly if we are to succeed.”

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” Maul growls.

“So have I,” the Muun reminds him.

Hours later, nightfall has come and it is dinner time. Rhea is back and he can’t wait to share the news from Plagueis. But this time, she doesn’t ask. Rhea sets down the tray and then disappears into his bedroom directly. It’s just as he instructed her to do last night.

She’s putting on that dress he bought to torment himself. He should never have ordered her to don it nightly. He’ll have to countermand that order, Maul decides. But not until after today since she’s already gone to put it on, he reasons.

All too soon, she is back. Standing there looking more like a prisoner presented to a judge than a gorgeous woman bent on seduction like the dress promises. Rhea is such a tremulous little thing, so eager to please and fearful of criticism. But also, game for treason and disconcertingly insightful at times. That combination of vulnerability and valor intrigues him. Weak though she is, Rhea aims for strength. How shocked she would be to know that she has power over him. Especially when she’s wearing that dress.

He looks. Then, he looks some more.

Why does he do this to them both? She’s so needy to be wanted but this can inevitably go nowhere. But behold those slight curves and taut skin and swaying tentacles. A man could rest easy clasped in her arms with those lekku draped about him. He can’t help but long for the feel of her warm flesh nestled against his. Usually, he can settle for the feel of her hand in his grip. But last night, he lost his head and before he knew it he was fondling her lekku, which he knows not to do. But he did it anyway. She loved it, too.

He needs to say something. Rhea’s looking to him expectantly. She needs affirmation. So, he settles on the first non-sexual compliment that comes to mind. “You’re getting better in those shoes.”

She grins sheepishly. “The girls where I used to work would let me try on their heels sometimes. They let me play with their makeup too.”

Yes, that’s right. He found her in a brothel. He now imagines Rhea playing dress up with the whores’ lures in a sad attempt to experience secondhand what it means to be desired. And that makes him especially loath to hurt her feelings. There is something pathetic about Rhea’s yearning for acceptance that is also uncomfortably familiar.

Time to focus on treason, he decides, lest his thoughts wander far that direction. He shares his good news. “The rebels made contact with Plagueis. They want him to front the credits for my proposal.”

“Will he do it?” she asks hopefully.

“Yes. The rebels want to start small at a single location, but Plagueis says he will push for more.”

Her face lights up. “So, they went for it? This is really happening?” Rhea asks breathlessly as she walks forward towards him into the room.

“Yes.” It feels good to say the word out loud. “This is happening.” He’s back in the game. He’s Darth Maul again, whether his father will grant him the title status or not.

“And the leadership position?”

That’s an issue. “It looks like I may have to settle for co-leadership of their military for now.”

“So not on the council with the Senators?”

“No,” he sighs. “They want any military group firmly under control of the politicians.”

“Like in the old Republic,” she surmises.

“Yes. The dissension seems to be mostly among the political types. The extremists, the business backers like Plagueis, and those with military experience tend to want a more organized framework. It’s the Senators who can’t seem to agree on a chain of command. They all fancy themselves as equals.”

“But you will have a big role?” she persists with her optimism.

“If I build, hide, and control their army, I don’t see how they can deny me.”

“Good. What’s the next step?” Rhea asks eagerly. “How can I help?”

“We are meeting with Senator Mothma.”

“Oh, wow.” Her eyes widen. “Senator Mon Mothma from Chandrila . . . she’s the most famous woman in the galaxy . . . ”

“We are meeting with her next week.”

“W-We?” Rhea squeaks with excitement as his choice of pronoun finally sinks in.

“We,” he confirms.

“Oh, Sir!” she gushes happily as she claps her hands. She’s grinning ear to ear and it’s a beautiful sight. There’s not an ounce of guile in Rhea and it feels so refreshing. She’s happy for him. Well, really, she’s happy for them both. Just look at her beaming joy at him and looking proud.

“You’re so beautiful . . . “ The words escape his lips involuntarily. Is it her goodness he admires? Could it be her Light? Certainly, it’s her stoicism and her quiet, coping strength. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that she looks sexy as Hell in that dress.

“Oh, don’t say that . . . “ She frowns and he immediately realizes what he just did. He inadvertently reminded her of the deformity she hates and finds hard to forget. Now, suddenly, she is diminished and self-conscious again.

But he says it once more with conviction. “You are so beautiful.” It sounds more like an order than a compliment. But that’s because he feels insistent. He wants Rhea to see herself like he sees her. She is so much more than just her injury.

If he could, he would heal that scar, but he can’t. So he decides to kiss her cheek again. He wants Rhea to know that he’s not repulsed by what life has done to her. He’s sincere, and maybe he’s projecting a little, but he can’t help it. This is important to him.

“Rhea . . . “ He approaches. His hands are on her upper arms now. “Little one . . . This is the beginning of the end for my Master.”

She nods gravely. Then, she answers like a true believer for the rebellion: “We will bring peace, justice, freedom, and security to the galaxy.”

Not to the galaxy, but to his new empire, specifically. But he omits that bit for Rhea’s benefit. It’s way too soon to tell how this will all end up. But for now, they can celebrate their initial success. He stands there in their loose not-quite embrace for an agonizing moment. Then, he leans in further and she closes her eyes. Lips parted, chin lifted, breath soft . . . yes, she’s ready for this. She wants this. He wants it too. And that’s when things go awry. For the kiss on the cheek that he intends somehow lands instead as a kiss on the lips.

Has Rhea ever been kissed? Probably not. She’s absolutely still beneath his lips, uncertain what to do. But she doesn’t pull back, she wants more. Her rush of desire lurches at his mind through the Force, the mental impression made more apparent by their physical contact.

_She wants him_. This is more than his unrequited low-key obsession. This is not just his submissive housemaid allowing him liberties. He’s not taking advantage, this is mutual. _She wants him_.

That realization thrills him. The soft brush of his lips on hers now becomes something more. If that first kiss was more of a gentle salute, then this is a true expression of desire. Rhea is tentative at first. But as he persists, his hands raising to cup her face, she begins to respond. He’s not surprised that she has no experience. Actually, no small part of him is pleased. Mine, all mine, he thinks covetously. Then, he deepens the kiss. Force, this feels so good. She’s warm and willing and a quick student at kissing. He could drown in her mouth and die a happy Sith.

This is glorious even if it’s stupid. He doesn’t need to give Rhea mixed messages like this. She’s his underling, not his lover. He wants to mentor her, not bed her. But given the memory of randy old Darth Plagueis with a sexy Togruta in his lap, he feels entitled to at least kiss Rhea to compete with the Muun Sith. Right then and there, he decides that he’s not stopping until Rhea stops him. This just feels too good to cut short. It’s been decades since he did this. But it’s like riding a speeder bike—you never forget the skill.

Her hands come up now to find his waist. It’s a natural gesture, a slight progression combined with subtle encouragement, as she makes to pull him close. Her hands are on his thick leather belt that both covers and protects the intersection of his organic body with his prosthetic. But still . . . he panics. Sure, he’s a cool head in combat, a strategic thinker with his enemies, and a calm, usually sardonic verbal opponent. But in this moment, all his typical self-assurance deserts him. Because he doesn’t want Rhea or anyone else in Crimson Dawn to know just how mutilated he is.

He thrusts her away fast now. “Stop it!” he hisses as he pushes hard. “Enough!”

Rhea stumbles back in her stiletto sandals and now there is a normal amount of space between them. She’s blinking fast, her expression as hurt as it is confused. “I’m sorry!” she instantly wails. Now, she’s the one panicked. Her hands raise to her cheeks in mortified dismay.

His words were a rebuff for her wandering hands, not for her sweet lips. But Rhea doesn’t know that and he can’t explain it without revealing what he hides. Her chin goes down now and her cheeks flame purple. She’s utterly mortified. “I’ll go change,” she mumbles almost unintelligibly as she flees next door. She emerges in record time, her uniform and boots back on. Then she grabs the lunch tray and runs away.

He watches her escape. He’s embarrassed about how he handled the situation but unwilling to explain. It’s best to let her go. There’s just one more thing he needs to do to make sure this situation never happens again. “Rhea--”

“Yes?” she yelps as she freezes in the doorway. Oh Force, he hates how afraid she looks right now.

“Don’t wear that dress again.” He brought this on them both with his foolishness. He won’t do it again.

“Yes, Sir,” she nods fervently before she dashes out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to WH Auden for the paraphrase from his glum poem 'September 1, 1939' It's not the 'habit-forming pain . . . we must suffer them all again' third stanza part that people love to quote, but the sixth stanza:
> 
> For the error bred in the bone / Of each woman and each man / Craves what it cannot have, / Not universal love / But to be loved alone.
> 
> And the punchline of the second stanza:
> 
> We must love one another or die


	13. chapter 13

Maul never mentions the disastrous kiss. Rhea takes his cue to ignore it as well. But she dwells on it incessantly. She’s just so confused.

On Canto Bight, Maul had wanted her to look like a lady. He explained that he was outfitting her for their conspiracy. That all made perfect sense. But then, he buys her the first dress he reacted so strongly against. He wants her to wear it in private just for him. He tells her she’s beautiful. The words make her feel beautiful. He strokes her lekku one night and kisses her the next. But each time, it ends when he abruptly pushes her away. She is rejected and dismayed. Feeling like she did something wrong. 

Did she? Rhea honestly doesn’t know. She has no personal experience in these matters, even if she’s seen a lot of the sex trade in the gang. Knowing what happens behind closed doors between men and women is very different from feeling confident and sophisticated about it personally. And layering on the added pressure of this being Maul—her boss and a notoriously violent crime lord—makes the stakes feel very high.

Could Maul’s actions be because of that awkward conversation about her being a virgin? Purity is a bit of a fetish among some men, she knows. Rhea personally finds that attitude to be off-putting, but she’s seen it often enough. The prostitutes she has known—and there have been many—never affirmatively chose their profession. Men would either romanticize their plight as damsels in distress or scorn them for their business of sex. Because either way, men want sex to mean something, even if it’s with a whore. So, they either love the women who charge them by the hour or hate them for their business motive. Mostly because they cannot bear to be an anonymous customer whose trade is one of many. Their egos simply can’t handle it. At its core lies a great deal of misogyny, Rhea suspects.

Men like that want the madonna or the whore. Well, really, they want them both. It is a trap to choose either role. It means you always fail to please. But Rhea has never had either experience, and she doubts she ever will. Honestly, part of her longs to play the whore. Just once—for a few fleeting moments without consequences—she would like to be desired. To throw caution to the wind and be swept away in the moment like in a holonet movie. She thought she found that briefly in the arms of a surprisingly vulnerable Sith Lord until he pushed her away.

Maybe it’s a status issue. Because while Maul accepts her and mentors her, she’s not good enough to be his lady. She’s a housemaid, after all, even if she’s masquerading otherwise to the rebels. And she’s not beautiful, despite what he says. A man like Maul could have any woman he wants, Rhea decides, so he could choose a truly lovely one. Some girl much more accomplished and attractive than she is. Without a scar.

Could it also be an age thing? He’s decades older than she is. Maul calls her ‘little one’ almost like a daughter. Maybe given their great gulf in life experience, that’s how he would prefer for them to relate to one another.

Curious Rhea asks Marisol one day as nonchalantly as possible whether she knows if Maul ever had a wife or girlfriend. Marisol says no. Not in all the years she’s been here. The only woman anyone has ever heard him refer to is his mother, the other maid recalls. But some of the longtime gang members remember that Maul had a younger brother who died on Mandalore. Maul never talks about him, Marisol warns, so don’t go there.

She doesn’t know what Rhea knows—that Maul’s Emperor father slew his little brother. In fact, she knows a lot of Maul’s secrets no one in the gang knows. From his tragic personal history, to his role in the Clone Wars, to his machinations to organize a rebellion against his own father. Rhea knows this means Maul trusts her. That’s something, at least. And if he wants to just be friends and confidantes, that’s fine. He’s the boss, so he gets to make the rules.

With no clear explanation for his hot-then-cold behavior, Rhea decides to do what she always does with difficulties in life—she accepts them. But woman-like, she also internalizes them. It’s just too hard not to, given how personal the rejection felt. So while Rhea continues to be her dutiful, helpful self outwardly to Maul, she can’t help but obsess about what happened between them. It gnaws at her.

Only once does Maul ever broach the topic. It happens during one of their prep sessions. She’s been tasked with learning a revised and updated version of the original presentation to the rebels. This one includes proposals for how to set about amassing a rebel military. It's a high-level overview on everything from what to buy and where to warehouse it, to who to recruit and how to train them. Maul is going to do the conclusion with the timetable and suggested initial plan of attack.

Rhea works hard to master the material. But when she delivers her practiced portion one evening three days after the kiss, she’s nervous and it shows. Maul is hunched over his dinner chewing as he watches, saying nothing until she finishes.

He isn’t pleased. “Where has all your confidence gone?” he complains.

“Sir?” she responds weakly.

Maul lays his plate aside as he considers her. He doesn’t mince words. “You were competent and polished in front of Organa. Now, you look like you’re delivering your first book report in front of the third-grade class.”

Cringing Rhea nods. “That was bad, I know. I’ll try again,” she mumbles, looking down.

“You know this material. What’s the issue?” Maul demands.

Rhea swallows hard as she searches for how to respond that the problem is him. But Maul must be reading her thoughts with the Force because he sighs heavily and looks away. “I have ruined things, haven’t I?”

“Oh no, it was my fault—all my fault!” she rushes in to accept the blame. Because she must have done something wrong. And tonight, she’s failing again. She’s miserable for it, too.

He’s not buying it. “I did ruin things, I see.” Maul frowns and fumes. He’s getting angry she realizes with true alarm.

Rhea can’t help it. She now takes a step back. It’s an anticipation of the further rejection to come. Her hands are clasped in front of her to keep from wringing them.

Scowling Maul now launches to his feet, but instead of advancing on her, he stalks away to the office window. He knows what the problem is. Looking away, he gets right to the point. “Little one, I would kiss you and more if I could, but I can’t.”

“You’re m-married, aren’t you?” Rhea blurts out her secret fear. That Maul is committed elsewhere and that’s what prompts him to reject her. Or maybe, she worries, it’s the memory of a lost love that stops him. But either way, the man she can’t get her mind off is unavailable.

Maul shakes his head. “I have no wife.”

“Is she dead? Did your father kill her as well?” Rhea speaks aloud the sad story she has imagined.

He turns around to face her. “I have never committed to a woman.”

“Oh.”

“That wasn’t the culture I was raised in. There was no concept of formal relationships in the coven.”

“I see.” Rhea feels her face burn at her ignorant assumption. How foolish and naïve she must seem. Maybe presumptuous as well.

“I’m not the marrying kind, especially these days.”

“Of course,” she immediately defers. “Sir, I wouldn’t presume—“

“Rhea, this isn’t about you.”

“Right,” she agrees reflexively though she’s thoroughly unconvinced.

“I mean it. This isn’t about you.”

“Yes, Sir.” She stares at the ground, half hoping it will open wide and swallow her up just to end this awkward conversation.

“My name is Maul. Call me Maul in private,” he insists sounding angry again.

Cowed, she accidentally replies, “Yes, Sir,” before she can stop herself. Because that command feels like yet another mixed message.

Call him Maul . . . wear the fancy dress and turn around slowly . . . hold his hand when he offers it . . . listen quietly and swap stories of your unfortunate past . . . plot treason with rebel Senators even . . . but don’t kiss him back when he kisses you. That goes too far. That’s the last straw. That sets the secret Sith off and he will thrust you hard two meters across the room when seconds ago he was holding you like you are the most precious thing in the galaxy. You will stumble and endeavor not to fall as he looks at you with eyes that are so full of rage they seem almost evil.

Maul has done it before—he turns on her when she least expects it. His quicksilver mood changes occur when one or both of them is feeling especially vulnerable. And then Maul is shouting in her face with his terrifying hoarse whisper. In those moments, Maul feels capable of anything. For this man is so, so dangerous.

Rhea knows the risk intellectually, of course. She’s a member of his gang and she’s heard plenty of lurid war stories. She’s even cleaned up the bloodstains from the aftermath of his violence. But she’s never seen him in that state with her own eyes until that kiss. The worst part is that Rhea still doesn’t know what she did wrong to merit that expression.

He frowns at her again. Is he skimming her thoughts? Does Maul know how eager she is to please? She never ever wants to see him look at her again that way. She clenches her clasped hands tighter now to keep them from trembling. Because please, please don’t let Maul explode at her again tonight. She will practice the presentation and do better next time.

She promises, “Sir, I will do better—"

“That’s enough for now.” He crosses to his desk and retrieves a datafile. “Here.” He tosses it right at her. A week ago, he would have approached to hand the datafile over. But now, Maul seems determined to keep his physical distance. “It’s a dossier on Senator Mothma. Learn it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Maul.”

Taking that for a dismissal, she flees for the door. Casting one last quick glance over her shoulder, Rhea sees that Maul looks exasperated. He turns away while she watches. It’s yet another rejection.

Thereafter, Rhea does her homework. She psyches herself up for the next night’s afterhours prep session with Maul. She’s determined to redeem herself in his eyes, and she does.

“Good,” he grunts when she finishes a run-through. “I was worried that I might have to give the presentation myself.”

“I won’t let you down,” Rhea promises fervently. She wants to please him. Moreover, the fate of the galaxy is ultimately at stake here and that trumps her individual concerns.

It helps that they have finally spoken about things. She still doesn’t have a satisfactory answer for what happened, but the kiss is no longer the raging wild rancor in the room that they are both ignoring. Rhea relaxes considerably and she reclaims her burgeoning self-confidence. This is new for her. She has never drawn power from being the center of attention. Long before her scar, Rhea made a habit of ceding the limelight. She was content to bask in the reflected glory of others. But Maul is changing all that by asking her to step up as his co-conspirator. She’s front and center with the rebels.

All too soon, the day arrives and she and Maul have docked in Senator Organa’s cruiser for the big meeting. Rhea is wearing the aubergine colored cape dress that Maul bought her. It’s regal in style and it makes her stand taller. Dressed like this, she feels like the equal of any Senator. It’s just the ego boost she needs to march alongside Crimson Dawn’s notorious lead gangster with aplomb. If nothing else, she looks the part.

Major Draven walks them to the conference room where they met last time. This time, there are two famous Senators awaiting them. Maul still doesn’t shake their hands. Again, Rhea is the one to smile and exchange preliminary pleasantries on behalf of Crimson Dawn. But today, Maul doesn’t take the seat at the head of the table. Rhea and Maul sit opposite the two Senators and Draven. It’s a classic setup for negotiation.

If a woman can be the opposite of perky, Senator Mon Mothma is it, Rhea decides. With her pixie cut auburn hair and slightly elfin features, Mothma is polished and feminine but far from friendly. Her initial greeting is pleasant enough, but also exceedingly serious. As soon as everyone takes a seat, she gets down to business.

She addresses Maul. “So . . . you think you can kill Darth Vader.”

He nods.

“And you have the Jedi powers to do this?”

Maul nods again.

The two Senators exchange quick glances.

Bail Organa is polite but blunt as he expresses their shared skepticism. “Master Yoda couldn’t stop him or the Emperor. Yoda went into exile rather than fight them. But you think you can do it?”

“Yes.” When Maul finally speaks, he plays to his audience. “The time has come. The galaxy has endured their tyranny for long enough.”

Senator Mothma digests this succinct speech. Again, she is skeptical. Mostly, it seems, because Maul’s reputation has preceded him. “I remember the bloodshed Death Watch caused on Mandalore,” she states with calm, steely eyes focused on Maul. “I knew Duchess Satine Kryze. I was one of three Senators representing the old Republic at a peace conference she convened.”

“You voted against sending Republic help to the Duchess, I recall. You made it easier for us,” Maul counters.

“It wasn’t done to support you, it was done to respect the autonomy of the neutral New Mandalore government,” Senator Mothma puts her own spin on it.

Maul shrugs indifferently. “The pacifists were going to fall either way. If they didn’t fall to Death Watch, they would have fallen to the Separatists. But instead, the Republic invaded to save the day. Thereby destroying Mandalore’s claims to neutrality and initiating a long, violent occupation that continues to this day.”

Senator Mothma now accuses, “You had the Duchess executed. You kicked off the violence.”

“Mandalore did not turn out the way I hoped,” Maul allows. He next offers conciliatory words that are the closest a Sith will get to an apology. They are strategic, of course. “History will mock us all eventually, Senator. My goals were undone by the steady march of inconvenient events. Now, I am left with humility and regret.” Only Rhea in the room knows that the humility is for his sense of failure and the regret is because he didn’t win.

Senator Mothma digs in, “You had the Duchess summarily executed.”

“If I hadn’t done it, Count Dooku would have. It was time for a regime change. That’s why we are here today, are we not? You want my help for galactic regime change.” Maul looks Chandrila’s Senator in the eye. “I was a liberator and a revolutionary on Mandalore. I can be those things now with you against the Emperor.”

“That’s a bold claim,” the heretofore silent Senator Organa speaks up.

“Yes, and it is why we are here today,” Senator Mothma inserts herself again. “Your exploits on Mandalore, however questionable, are the reason you got this far, Maul. I wouldn’t call you successful, but there is no doubt that you are effective.”

Maul takes the backhanded compliment gracefully. “Senators, this will be an armed conflict. Sheev Palpatine will never agree to relinquish power. There is no bloodless coup scenario to be had here. So if non-violent compromise in the spirit of Duchess Satine of Mandalore is your goal, we have nothing further to discuss today.”

Mon Mothma backs down. “Regrettably, we agree that war is inevitable.” Beside the Senator, her colleagues nod in unison.

“Reforms are half-measure that won’t work,” Maul continues. “The people can’t ask for democracy, they must seize it. We must assert ourselves.”

Senator Mothma concurs. “That’s why we want to secretly prepare for war while we publicly push for change. We want you and Major Draven to build our military. Raddus will help you as well.”

“Who is this Raddus?” Maul wants to know.

Draven answers. “He’s Mon Calamari. Raddus is assembling the beginnings of a fleet for us. We’re retrofitting some of the refugee cityships he brought us into cruisers.”

“If he’s Mon Cal, he hates the Empire,” Maul guesses. “Vader and Tarkin killed billions on that planet.”

Bail Organa explains, “Raddus is one of our more vocal proponents for an aggressive stance against the Empire. He’s been pushing for a while for us to create a military.”

Maul smirks, “I like him already.” Again, playing to his audience, he remarks, “The whole galaxy knows what happened on Mon Cala because the Empire deliberately set out to make an example of what defiance would result in. But Palpatine gets no credit for most of what he’s done. Senators, when the time is right, you need to publicly expose the Emperor for his role in the downfall of the Republic. He created the Clone Wars to destabilize the galaxy. Then he used the war to manipulate the Senate into giving him more and more executive powers. Little by little, the constitutional compromises he pretended to reluctantly accept paved the way for his declaration of Empire.”

Heads nod in agreement. “Hindsight makes events very clear,” Senator Mothma concedes, “but while Senator Organa and I suspected Palpatine’s intent at the time, we could neither prove it nor stop it.”

“Now is when we stop it,” Maul urges, cheerleading for insurrection. “We need to provoke a broad-based crisis in confidence in the Imperial system starting at the top. Palpatine himself did this masterfully with the Republic—he managed to unravel time-honored institutions like the Jedi, the Senate, and the courts in record time by exposing and harping on their weakness and corruption. We should do the same for him. His carefully curated statesman posture must be impeached for the lie that it is.”

“You want to use his own methods against him?” Mon Mothma observes.

“Yes. Only this time, we will do it with truth,” Maul proclaims with an irony only Rhea understands.

Across from Rhea, Senator Organa sighs. He’s a man in his middle years, but for a moment he looks truly old to Rhea’s young eyes. His square jaw twists as he mourns, “The Empire has become everything we feared it would become. Palpatine and Vader must be stopped.”

Maul uses that as his opening to broach a tricky topic. “It will be more difficult than you realize,” he warns in his hushed tenor drawl. “They are Sith Lords.”

For a moment, you could hear a pin drop in the silent conference room. Only the low hum of the ship’s hyperdrive is audible. Rhea holds her breath.

After a long pause, Senator Mothma answers, “We know.”

If Rhea had any lingering doubts that the fantastic conspiracy Maul has told her is true, they were just wiped away. For neither of the Senators nor Major Draven reacts to the highly improbable claim that the ancient enemy of the Jedi and the Republic defeated thousands of years ago are, in fact, back again. And this time, they’ve won.

“Did your Jedi friends in hiding tell you?” Maul guesses.

Bail Organa answers, “Master Yoda began to suspect the Sith during the war. I confess that I thought he was paranoid. Little did we know that a Sith Lord was running the Republic at the time.”

“And the Confederacy,” Mon Mothma chimes in. Her next comment gets right to the heart of why Rhea herself is sitting in the room: “The Sith were on both sides of the war. There was no true conflict. It was an elaborate pretext that left billions dead.” Including Rhea’s family.

Mon Mothma pins close eyes on Maul now. “How do you know this? It’s a rather close kept secret.”

Maul starts to spin his tale. It’s the truth, with a few important omissions. “The Sith destroyed my homeworld and my family. Palpatine sent Dooku and the Separatists to commit genocide on Dathomir. When my mother, the head witch, survived, Palpatine followed me to her. He tracked Mother down himself with his secret ally General Grievous there to deliver the killing blow.” Maul looks away and makes a very convincing expression of pain as his voice grows more faint than usual. But everyone is listening closely. No one has trouble hearing his concluding lament. “Like so many Jedi Masters who died saving their Padawans and Younglings, Mother died so that I could live.”

Maul yellow eyes narrow on the Senators as he explains, “Palpatine wanted us dead for the same reason that he and Vader hunted down the Jedi—because only a Force user can oppose them. The Witches of Dathomir, like the Jedi Order, posed an existential threat. My coven, like your Jedi friends, were exterminated. A man who goes to those lengths to protect his position will never cede power voluntarily. Palpatine—Darth Sidious—must be destroyed. His apprentice Vader as well.”

“On that, everyone in this room agrees,” Senator Mothma nods.

“Now, I am all who remain of my tradition.” Maul shakes his head and sighs slowly. It’s a low hissing noise. “We are just one example of the unbridled tyranny of the Sith.”

Listening to Maul now, Rhea can’t tell whether he is sincere or not. Because he himself is a Sith Lord and this meeting is to manipulate the rebels. Right? 

“We are sorry for your many losses,” Bail Organa offers sincere sympathy.

Mon Mothma also makes a face of consolation. “Major Draven told us of Dathomir. It sounds as if the fighting was very fierce.”

“It was. Our coven was outnumbered by a factor of five or more. Mother called upon old, important magic to defend her people. She raised the dead to fight on her behalf.”

Major Draven chokes on the caf he has just taken a sip of. “She did what?” he sputters.

“Does that sound preposterous to you? It is not,” Maul assures him. “All things are possible in the Force. The Sith know that, too. Darth Sidious first came to Dathomir decades prior to the war. He came seeking my Mother’s special knowledge of old secrets used for immortality. Palpatine was desperate to learn them. He was obsessed with prolonging his life using the Force. If he learned certain things . . . well, then he may be very difficult to kill. You are going to need a Force user like me to do it,” Maul presses his case for his personal importance.

“Immortality??” Major Draven’s squint expresses his skepticism.

“Ummmm . . . yes,” Maul replies. He warns, “The Dark Side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be unnatural. Mother knew those tricks but she disdained them. The Witches of Dathomir were neither Jedi nor Sith. They sensed the Force in the natural world that surrounded them. They did not like tricks and spells that disrupted the usual order of things. Raising the dead to create an army was an emergency measure. Mother would never have allowed it were she not desperate.”

Maul is glumly philosophical now as he continues his campaign to ingratiate himself. “In time of war, people are sometimes forced to employ extreme measures in defense of life and liberty. Even good people can be made to do bad things.”

“Your Mother knew the Dark Side, but she was not a Sith?” The Jedi-loving Senator Organa is alarmed.

“On Dathomir, there was no concept of Dark or Light. The Force was the Force. It was a way of life handed down for more than a thousand generations. The coven had no ideology of dominance or ambitions to expand. Most systems never knew we existed. My people kept to themselves and never bothered anyone. Still, they were slaughtered for their knowledge. The Sith wanted to suppress it. To hoard the wisdom of the Force for themselves alone. It’s why to this day, they hunt Jedi survivors who were small children at the time the Republic fell.” Maul watches Bail Organa closely now. “Lord Sidious and Lord Vader fear the rise of new rivals.”

“There are still Jedi,” Bail Organa volunteers vaguely.

“Few that matter,” Maul counters. “No half-trained former Padawan is going to topple an Empire. So unless you know of a Jedi Master in hiding who you can put me in touch with, the Jedi won’t play a role in this rebellion.”

Rhea watches as Maul looks expectantly to the three rebels who sit with determined poker faces. “Well? Do you? Do you know where Yoda hides?”

Bail Organa answers, “There are no Jedi Masters who can help us.”

Maul accepts that reply and keeps telling a highly selective version of the truth. “From time to time, I have come across Jedi in hiding. Force users have a way of stumbling into one another,” he explains. “Not once have I ever betrayed one to the Empire. I will not serve up others to be executed like my family was.”

“But you know the Dark Side?” Organa again presses his concern.

“My people practiced the occult. Our way of life used the Dark Side at times, but not exclusively like the Sith. I myself have made my own independent study of the Dark Side. To defeat your enemy you must understand them,” he advises as Major Draven nods in wholehearted agreement.

“Master Yoda and his fellow Jedi failed to fight the Dark Side with the Light. I will choose a new strategy,” Maul vows. “I will defeat Darkness with Darkness. Because if this is a competition for anger and hate,” he purrs, “I win hands down. I have been wronged,” he snarls with true menace. “Very, very wronged.” His words are angry but Rhea thinks his yellow eyes are more sorrowful than anything.

He predicts, “Our rebellion will draw them out. The Sith will show their true colors now that they have no elections to win. Mark my words, our cause will be the pretext for the evil that was always in their hearts. Prepare yourselves, for this revolution will be brutal and bloody. Trust me—a Sith will do anything for power.” Only Rhea knows Maul speaks from personal experience.

Mon Mothma sniffs, “Sheev Palpatine never saw a constitutional power he did not abuse.”

“Senator,” Maul is respectful as he schools her on the ways of the Dark Side, “you are thinking of this all wrong. For a Sith, there’s no such thing as an abuse of power. Power is power and it doesn’t matter how you use it.”

Chandrila’s longtime Senator is still highly skeptical of Crimson Dawn’s involvement. “Maybe so, but we have no intention of betraying our ideals in order to win.”

“Such a harsh choice of words,” Maul chides her. Then, he is conciliatory. “I’m not saying you need to betray your values, just that you may need to be flexible in compromising them from time to time. When we win,” Maul promises, “you can reestablish the limits you feel are appropriate.”

Senator Mothma raises a cool eyebrow in response. “That’s the attitude that led you to kill Duchess Satine, isn’t’ it?”

“Are we back to that again?” Maul complains. He turns to her now. “Rhea, tell them our proposal.”

That’s her cue to produce the holoprojector and present their suggestions. The presentation is rather lengthy to begin with, but it gets longer with repeated interruptions for detailed questions. Maul addresses most of the concerns, but Rhea is able to get in a few answers herself. She recalls Maul’s advice that she display a depth of knowledge where possible to earn credibility. I want you to be more than just a prop, he has told her repeatedly.

But by and large, Maul does a lot of talking while Rhea watches. He is clinical and detached as he describes his plans. Is that a Sith Lord’s ability to compartmentalize showing? Is it his honest indifference to the collateral consequences of the warfare he plots? Well, partly. But Maul’s heart isn’t in this, she fears as she listens. It appears that he has convinced the rebel Senators to accept him with his sad tale of personal loss, and maybe even explained away some of his excesses by earning their begrudging sympathy. She’s sure it doesn’t hurt that he’s offering much needed help, as well. The problem is that Rhea worries Maul himself is not fully convinced of the goals he trying to sell the Senators on. Because every time he explains or predicts how Lord Sidious and Lord Vader will react to their strategy, Maul seems almost wistful. It’s a subtle shift that only someone who knows him well will pick up on. But Rhea sees it. He’s saying all the right things, but still . . .

When it’s over, it’s clear from the concluding discussion that the rebels are already very vested in the opportunity Maul is offering. They might not like him or what he represents, but they are willing to accept his help. It’s also clear that Darth Plagueis has prevailed and the rebels have abandoned their attempt to begin this strategy with half measures. There is no further talk about limiting Crimson Dawn’s involvement to only one site. All in all, the meeting feels very promising. Like a tense, but hopeful new beginning.

Maul says nothing as they leave, so Rhea volunteers to begin the post mortem on the meeting. “I think that went well,” she hedges, speaking in a low voice as they walk fast through the cruiser’s hangar bay, “but they don’t trust you.”

“They need me, but they don’t trust me,” Maul concurs. They are at the ship now. He steps aside to let her climb aboard first. “They are worried that I am the ally who will become the enemy. That I am their Darth Plagueis.”

Rhea digests this comment as she shimmies up the ship’s ladder. Once inside, she asks, “You still don't trust him?” as she watches Maul emerge into the cockpit interior after her.

Maul flashes that little smirk she sees so often as he depresses the button to retract the ladder. “Never trust a Sith, little one. We are betrayers, one and all. Our allegiance is always opportunistic.” He gives her a sharp look, adding softly in his intimate tone, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And that prompts Rhea to raise a possibility that has nagged at her. Now that they are alone, she voices the concern bluntly. “Will you betray the rebels to your father? Is that the real endgame here?”

Maul doesn’t deny the assertion as a possibility. Instead, he answers with another slight smile tugging at his lips, “You are perceptive as always.”

“But you would do it, wouldn’t you?” she guesses. Rhea’s beginning to suspect that despite all Maul’s anger at Sheev Palpatine, he wants his father’s acceptance more than he wants revenge. Today at the meeting, Maul’s true sadness for the situation came out. The rebels might not see the nuance, but she did: aggrieved though he is, her boss is more hurt than anything. She knows that were Darth Sidious to offer the olive branch, Maul would leap to accept it. If somehow, some way, they could reconcile and forgive each other’s failures and wrongdoings, Maul could be content, she thinks. And that has her worrying. Is this whole rebellion scheme just a mechanism for Maul to approach his father from a position of strength? Is he setting up the rebels to throw them under the transport bus?

Her confirmation comes in Maul’s slow, hesitant reply: “I might. I really don’t know . . .”

“But he’s done terrible things!” Sheev Palpatine is the arch villain who Rhea wants to depose. She wants to destroy that Sith’s reign, not join him. She condemns the Emperor now: “Maul, he’s a monster—“

“So am I.”

“But—“

“So am I,” Maul growls indignantly in his high tenor rasp.

And maybe that’s true in some ways, but Rhea refuses to accept it. “No, you’re not! Maul, don’t let your father continue to have this power over you,” she argues, “he’s not worth it--he doesn’t deserve it after all he’s done--”

“He’s still my father.”

“But—“

Maul holds up a hand that instantly silences Rhea. “We will see how all this develops,” he puts her off gently. “We are a long, long way from any of this being ripe. The bigger risk is that Plagueis will take over for Father and he will be far worse. Now strap yourself in. Let’s go.”

“Yes, Sir,” she relents. 

Maul flies a small snazzy starfighter to and from these meetings. It’s a two-seater craft meant for a pilot and co-pilot gunner in a combat situation. That means she and Maul sit back-to-back, strapped into their seats, for the flight home. The arrangement presupposes humans in flightsuits and helmets. But that is not the case for her and Maul. So, Rhea’s graceful skirts pool on the floor about her feet. Her wideset lekku stream down the sides of her high-backed chair. As always, her headtails jostle slightly with her movements. But in these close quarters, they also brush from time to time with Maul seated behind her. Embarrassed when as they buckle in, she feels their bodies make brief contact, Rhea mutters, “Sorry . . . ”

“Don’t be sorry,” Maul replies. “I like to feel that you’re back there.”

But still, self-consciously Rhea tucks her lekku forward over her chest. After that kiss they shared ended so badly, Rhea fears giving the false impression that she is casting out lures. Things have been strictly professional between her and Maul ever since that awful night. Rhea wants to respect his preference that they remain at a distance. She never wants to repeat that bad experience again.

The flight back to Dathomir from the rebel rendezvous point is long this time. Somewhere along the way in hyperspace, Rhea switches off the holonet show she is watching and nods off. She wakes to find her head lolled to the side as she feels the briefest of touches on her lips. Rhea blinks open her eyes in time to focus on Maul’s face hovering before hers. He pulls back fast. What just happened? Did he just kiss her? Maybe he just woke her up? She’s not sure. And where is she? Awareness floods back in. They’re on the ship heading home. She’s still wearing the fancy dress.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Maul’s yellow eyes twinkle at her confused dismay. The mischief in his face is almost boyish.

“Are we there yet?” she mumbles as she collects her wits.

“Yes.”

He now reaches to unbuckle her seat restraints himself, then offers her his hand. He holds her hand a lot, like she’s a child. But Rhea doesn’t mind. It feels good and it’s totally non-sexual, unlike that passionate kiss that provoked trouble.

Maul climbs out first and then she climbs down the ladder after him. It’s dusk on Dathomir as they arrive. Sunlight is fading and the shadows grow long. This doomed world is at its most ghostly at the hour of twilight, Rhea thinks as she looks around.

“Home, sweet home,” Maul remarks wryly as he turns to face the compound.

But Rhea is looking to the east at the surrounding countryside beyond the landing pad. She remembers her reaction upon her first arrival. How unsettled and disapproving she had been of all the battle refuse left behind. But now that she knows the history of this place and Maul’s part in it, she understands why he left things this way. It’s unresolved, like her boss’ own feelings about the past. And also, like his plans for the future. For Maul is as angry with his father as he is desperate for a reunion.

His heart is conflicted. Dathomir’s native son wants to be the Apprentice again. The last Nightbrother wants back his Sith Lord title. And so, if he can, he wants back into the good graces of the man who slaughtered his entire civilization. There is nothing Darth Sidious could do, Rhea suspects, that his adopted son will not find a way to tolerate. Because if killing his brother and mother and laying waste to his homeland isn’t enough to harden Maul’s heart, what is?

That worries her for this rebellion they plot . . . and for her part in it. She signed up to get rid of Sheev Palpatine, not to help him.

It also worries her for Maul who—all flirtation aside—she has truly come to like and to respect. Should she admire him for trying to salvage what is left of his family and his original path in life? Is that loyalty commendable or foolish? Should she be alarmed that a man as dangerous and powerful as Maul would risk Crimson Dawn and his life for a chance to come home to his despot father’s side? Maul hasn’t ever accounted for his whereabouts between his injury and the Clone Wars when he formed the gang. Rhea is a little afraid to ask what happened when his father cast him out. How devastating that must have been. And how devastating will it be if Palpatine rejects him once again?

But looking out at the battle wreckage now, Rhea voices her approval. “I’m glad that you didn’t clean up after the war.”

“It isn’t over.”

“Yes, I see that now.” She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly as she faces the field of rusting metal. “I understand. I didn’t before.” Little by little, she has come to know Crimson Dawn’s very complicated leader.

Maul turns to her and steps closer, his expression intense. He’s not a particularly tall man, but he looms over her all the same. Rhea waits frozen in anticipation for what will happen next. For the briefest of moments, she imagines he will embrace her. Maybe even take her in his arms and kiss her right here in full view of the compound. But he doesn’t. Instead, he offers his hand again and she accepts. It’s Maul’s safe, chaste version of a hug, she’s slowly realizing. A sign of connection and affinity with clear boundaries.

She can accept that posture, of course. But it won’t stop her from falling asleep tonight to memories of their kiss that blossom into fantasies of much more. Rhea has fast developed a soft spot for this very fearsome man who straddles two ancient traditions. Maul was raised to make history, but instead he witnesses it. All because he lost a duel to a Jedi and ended up with artificial shins. He says he sees the future, but he doesn’t know how it will unfold. Not because he can’t influence things, but because he doesn’t know what he wants. For Maul—Darth Maul—Lord Maul—the stolen firstborn Mother Witch’s son raised in the ideology of his enemy--is elusive . . . even to himself.


	14. chapter 14

He watches the daily newsfeed broadcast from Coruscant. It’s the official Imperial version of current events, which is a far cry from a free press. Usually, it is a lot of fawning coverage. But he’s guaranteed to catch a glimpse of Father most days.

Father still looks awful. Whatever the Jedi Council did to him during their ill-fated attempt to arrest him at the war’s end, it left him looking shriveled and less than fully human. That’s sort of gratifying, actually. Father always did care a great deal for appearances during his Senate years. But look at him now. Well, maybe he doesn’t care. There are no votes to earn and elections to win at this point.

The price of power is always high. Vader sacrificed his skin and four limbs if the rumors are true. Darth Sidious lost his own good looks, transforming into a monstrous yellow-eyed grim reaper version of himself. And actually, that’s not novel. Historically, by and large, the Sith have not been a pretty bunch. The Dark Side left unchecked can waste your body and corrupt your mind. But still . . . at least Father and Vader got something in return. They rule the galaxy for their sacrifices, unlike himself. He rules a crime syndicate for his handicap. It’s a bitter bargain he regrets.

What do you do when you lose? It was not a lesson they covered in his training. Failure was never discussed. In retrospect, that seems silly because in the thousand generations since Lord Bane, lots and lots of Sith Lords failed. So to claim that failure is not an option is rather ludicrous. Because the Sith failed time and again. Sure, sometimes they died for their failure, but not always. Some lived like he did.

Why did he live on Naboo? He really isn’t sure. He has very hazy recollections of it now. The near amnesia is the result of the physical and emotional trauma combined with his subsequent insanity, no doubt. But he lived. And then years later on Mandalore, Father showed him mercy. Again, he lived. But why? For what purpose?

When years ago that wretched Muun showed up on his doorstep, Darth Plagueis looked him up and down and proclaimed that the Force was with him. His Master’s master was serious but he felt mocked. Because the Force never seems to be with him. He survives but to what aim? What will his destiny be? He wishes he knew. Because he suspects that he’s just a fallback for Father if Vader doesn’t work out. And maybe he’s yet another pawn on the dejarik table for wily Plagueis to manipulate. He’s no one’s first choice any longer and he’s not enough of a threat to kill. So everyone who matters tolerates him for now. That’s kind of humiliating. He’s a second string Sith.

The newsfeed shifts to a new story and Darth Vader is shown striding fast down a shuttle ramp with his cape billowing. He is always depicted this way: commanding and in movement. The impression it gives is that this is a man of action who gets things done. Not the quadriplegic burn victim who permanently exists on a ventilator for life support.

Kenobi got us both, Maul thinks as he watches the clip. Mother’s words come to mind now—warning that Lord Vader was begotten, not made. It’s a riddle Maul has yet to figure out. But judging by Plagueis’ reaction, it’s important.

He has often wondered what he and Vader have in common beyond their significant injuries. If circumstances were different, would they like and respect one another? Maul wonders. And does Vader love Father like he does? Or is being the Apprentice just a job for him?

The news story continues with more triumphant reports that Lord Vader has finally succeeded in subduing the insurgents on Mimban. Maul scowls at the commentator’s rosy predictions of peace going forward. There has been fighting on Mimban since the Clone Wars. That system is like Mandalore and so many other strategic worlds scattered around the galaxy: the Empire—like every other foreign occupier preceding it—will only hold them by force. 

The holonet now shows a clip of Father publicly lauding Lord Vader for achieving peace. It’s a lie. Peace is a lie and every Sith knows it. But watching Darth Sidious heap praise upon that Jedi pretender turns his stomach. Maul waves a hand and the screen goes dark. He refuses to watch his latest replacement bask in glory that should be his own. Besides, it’s time for his daily training session anyhow. A little saber swinging feels like just what he needs right now.

Irritated and jealous, Maul gets up from his desk. Glancing out the window, he sees Rhea. She’s with the married couple who live at the compound. And she’s holding a gun.

Intrigued, he decides to investigate.

He approaches from behind to where the small group stands at the compound fence. His tapping metal feet give him away, of course. The trio of Rhea, his lieutenant Uli, and the other housemaid Marisol whirl guiltily at his approach.

“I’m teaching Rhea to shoot,” Uli explains, gesturing to the blaster she’s holding.

“Mrs. Nettles and I think she needs to be able to defend herself,” Marisol pipes up to explain further.

Maul nods. She’ll get no argument from him on this point. His staff doesn’t know what he and Rhea have been up to with the rebels. They only know it’s a secret project that he needs to take a woman along for. But mixing with traitors has plenty of risk. Rhea is far more likely to get shot at with him on a mission than the kitchen is likely to be invaded once again. But he keeps that observation to himself.

“Carry on,” Maul orders. He crosses his arms as he lingers to watch.

Uli is teaching the basics. How to hold a gun, how to use the safety lock, how to aim, how to check the plasma charge level, how to anticipate recoil. Rhea listens closely and tries to emulate his stance. When she finally pops off a shot at some distant battle wreckage, she shrieks a little in the process but still manages to hit something. Then, she nearly drops the gun as she and Marisol cheer and hug one another in a moment of giggly girl power joy. He is amused watching it. Tough guy Uli meets his gaze and silently rolls his eyes.

But Uli has to go get on a comcall so Rhea hands his gun back. She looks so disappointed that Maul decides to give Rhea another chance to practice. “Come,” he beckons, “I have a blaster you can shoot.”

“It’s just as well. I need to get back to the kitchen anyway,” Rhea decides.

“Marisol can handle that. Come,” he orders again.

So Uli heads for his call, Marisol heads for the kitchen, and he and Rhea head for his private wing of the compound.

Beyond his office lies his bedroom, but beyond that lies his training room. It’s a Sith’s version of a gym. He’s got plenty of weaponry and equipment, as well as soundproofing and insulation to absorb blasterfire and keep it from ricocheting. It’s the perfect place for Rhea to get some practice shooting while he gets in a drill against a live opponent.

He selects a blaster off the wall of mounted weapons and hands it to Rhea. The other options range from different sword styles, to Force pikes, to a lightsaber in the form of a whip. “What is this place?” Rhea wonders aloud as she accepts the gun.

“This is where I maintain my skills.”

Her wandering eyes find the rows of battle droids at the far end of the room. She gulps. “Are those what I think they are?”

“Yes, but they are the modern version I use for training. I like an opponent.” He sees her trepidation, so he assures her, “They won’t hurt you. They are deactivated.”

Clearly uncomfortable, Rhea makes a face. “If you say so.”

“You need to learn to face your fears,” he chides her. Then, he lets his own preferred weapon, a double-bladed saber, float in the air with the help of the Force as he readies himself. When he works out, he likes to do it shirtless. It’s an old habit from his early training days. So he strips off his emblem chain and gloves, then he pulls up his loose, open collared tunic over his head. The movement is second nature to him, executed in nearly one fluid motion, for it is a habit long ingrained from his daily workouts. He’s just wearing his trousers and wide belt now. They hide the extent of his deformity that he obsesses over. Satisfied that he’s well covered since he has an audience, Maul grabs his sword and looks to Rhea. “Ready?”

She’s staring. Staring hard.

Oh no. He panics a little. Because does she realize? Does she see? Does she know??

Rhea blushes as he catches her gaze and frowns. Instantly, her eyes find the ground. She’s uncomfortable and embarrassed. But the Force tells him it’s not for him, it’s because of him. 

She finds him attractive.

Oh. Oooooh. That’s different.

“I wondered whether the tattoos covered your whole body,” she stammers by way of explanation. Then, realizing how intimate that sounds, she raises a guilty hand to her face. “I mean . . . I could see that they went down your neck to your . . . uh . . . chest,” she babbles artlessly,” and so I just sort of assumed . . . I mean I thought . . . uh . . . “

“They are a tradition of my people.”

“Right,” she yelps nervously. But she continues to ogle his bare chest. He feels much better now. Suddenly, he’s not on the defensive. He has the upper hand.

“Our mothers tattoo our heads and faces as children. As boys grow to maturity and become warriors, they add to them.” To demonstrate, Maul displays his arm . . . by flexing it. He does the other side now, pretending this is about his markings and not the muscles he is rippling to full effect. Is she getting how cut his lats and pecs are? 

She is. “I see . . .”

He continues to preen what’s left of his ruined body while he talks about the markings. “The patterns show our heritage and our birth order.” He turns to display his back now. “The dark covering on the back of my head and neck signifies that I am a Mother Witch’s son. It’s called a cowl tattoo. My brothers had the same. It marked us for royalty among the Nightbrothers.”

He’s not a big man, but what’s left of him is as solid as his steel prosthetic half. He is chiseled all over. Most especially on his abs, but they must be kept covered. He dares not show those off.

When he turns back around, Rhea keeps staring. He loves her for it.

“Most Nightbrothers had brown or yellow skin. Their tattoos were brown or dark grey. My red skin is unusual. It’s why mine are black.”

She nods. “Twi’leks inherit different skin colors too. But most of us are green or blue.”

“Red is a mark of distinction among my people. It is a sign that you are a favorite of the Force. Had I remained on Dathomir, I most likely would have led the brothers.”

Rhea is more impressed by what she’s seeing than by what he’s saying. “You look like you work out a lot. Like a lot, a lot . . .”

He nods. “It is an obligation. Nightbrothers were warriors to protect and serve the witches. Our bodies were to be kept in fighting form. Traditionally, a sister would select a few brothers to fight for her favor. The champion became her mate for the night.”

“And the others?” Rhea asks, looking wide eyed.

“They went home lonely,” he smirks.

“So . . . only the strongest survived to pass on their traits?”

“Yes. Those who won were either strong in body or strong in Force. Often, they were both.”

“So the men waited to be chosen? Not the women?” Rhea clearly finds this to be a novelty.

He confirms, “Yes. In Zabrak society, men and women did not intermingle. There was no traditional marriage. Adults did not have relationships. It was only when I left Darthomir that I encountered worlds where men held influence and were decision makers, not just the women. Where life was devoted to the pursuit of individual aims like wealth, position, or happiness. It was . . . different, but refreshingly so. Had I remained with the brothers, life would have been very different. I would have run the village, I suppose.”

“And had a lot of girlfriends?” she giggles.

“For certain,” he chuckles. “There would have been plenty of little Mauls running around. Now, then,” he shifts gears, “help me keep in fighting form. Assist me in today’s workout.”

Ever helpful, Rhea is game. “Alright . . . what do I do?”

He gestures to the gun she’s holding. “Shoot me.”

“W-what??”

He takes a few paces back and summons the Force. “Go on—shoot me,” he encourages. “Shoot me and keep shooting. You will be my live opponent for a training session.”

Rhea balks. “N-No.” She shakes her head and repeats herself more emphatically, “No.”

“Never fear. You won’t hurt me.”

She disagrees. “Of course, I’ll hurt you. The gun’s set to stun, but still—“

“Who said anything about setting to stun?” he scoffs. “Set it to full strength and open fire.” If there’s no risk, there’s no thrill. Flirting with danger is part of the fun.

“But—“

“I promise you won’t hurt me. I will deflect the shot. I have the Force. I have very fast reflexes.”

She is unconvinced. “No. I don’t want to.“

He sees her eyes dart back to the battle droids. That spooks her even more. Truly, this woman is timid. Well, she needs to get over it. Stifling a sigh, Maul tries again. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re being silly. Now, shoot me. That’s an order.”

Rhea shakes her head again. She puts the gun down on the table where he keeps a stack of towels and water bottles. “I should go . . .”

“You are not dismissed.” He’s never going to get to show off for her at this rate. Flexing is fine and all, but what’s he’s really good at is combat. He wants to show her that he can kill Vader. That he could be the warrior who might win her for the evening were she a Nightsister.

Rebel or not, Rhea is not one for defiance. She’s usually falling all over herself to please him. But not today, it seems. “Sir—“

He stalks forward and grabs for her wrist. The one with the Crimson Dawn tattoo. “This means you obey me.” With that reminder, he lets go and calls the discarded gun to his hand with the Force. He flips the safety off, sets to full strength, and hands it back to Rhea. Then he resumes his place and lights his sword. Rhea’s seen it before, but she still flinches at the immediate snap-hiss-buzz from both blades. He ignores the reaction. This girl needs to toughen up.

“Shoot me anywhere. That’s an order.”

“Sir—"

“Do it,” he commands.

With shaking hands and a dubious look, Rhea now lifts the weapon. It’s the stance Uli taught her. Is she going to close her eyes again as she pulls the trigger? She does not. Instead, Rhea shoots three meters wide to the left.

He doesn’t even bother to freeze or deflect that shot. It impacts on the wall harmlessly. “You’re worse than I thought,” he grumbles.

“Yes, well, as you see, I can’t help you.” His command fulfilled, skittish Rhea can’t put the gun down fast enough as she readies to flee.

Exasperated, he complains, “Everyone wants to kill me and I can’t even coax you to shoot at me. You deliberately miss. That’s not necessary.” In fact, he’s a little offended that she’s placating him.

Rhea’s backing away now. “It’s not set to stun. Sir, if you miss, you’ll be hurt—maybe even dead.”

He deactivates his sword and follows, bragging, “I’m a very hard man to kill.” Harder than she knows.

“Sir, I’ll take your word for it. But now, I’m needed in the kitchen. Mrs. Nettles—“

“You are not dismissed.” He digs in. “I need you to trust me.” He also needs her to follow orders. All orders, whether she likes them or not.

They are nearly toe to toe now as she continues to back up. “I do trust you,” Rhea yelps. “I just don’t want to take the risk.”

“You’re plotting treason with me. Don’t tell me you can’t handle a little risk.”

Her brow furrows. Her eyes squint. Rhea looks as if she might cry suddenly, and the Force tells him she’s truly upset. “Don’t be angry, please . . .”

He’s a Sith, he always angry. Anger is his thing. “What is it?” he snarls impatiently. “Spit it out!” He’s truly annoyed now with her reticence.

She looks down and whispers, “I can’t handle you hurt. Maul, you’ve been hurt enough. I won’t risk adding to it. Especially for a stupid stunt like this.”

“It’s not a stunt. It’s training. I need to be in top form to take on Vader.”

“Well, find someone else because I’m not hurting you,” Rhea states with true conviction.

Finally, she has found her voice and it’s less defiant than it is caring. She is very worried for him, he sees. Willing to defy him in a misguided attempt to protect him. Maybe he should be annoyed that she underestimates him. Or angry that she disobeys him. But he’s not. He’s actually rather happy about it. No one has worried for him since . . . well, since Mother and Savage. He’s touched.

Thoroughly embarrassed and flustered now, Rhea suggests, “Get Marisol to shoot you. She’s a good shot,” under her breath.

Maul tosses his long sword hilt onto the table beside the cast-off gun. He needs both hands to do what he’s planning to do next. He reaches to lift Rhea’s dropped chin as he steps into her space. “She’s not you. No one is you,” he hisses before he claims Rhea’s lips with his own. And now, once more he is crossing boundaries and breaking rules for a moment of folly.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows he needs to stop. But he can’t stop wanting this scared, scarred Twi’lek girl who is young enough to be his daughter. For so many reasons, this is wrong. She is wrong. She’s not a commanding presence or a combat equal. She doesn’t have the Force or any special talents. She’s quiet and obedient in all things except shooting a blaster at him. It’s the furthest thing from the women he’s usually attracted to. Rhea Cardulla is no Nightsister, that’s for sure.

Is it just proximity? Is it her availability? Maybe her quiet dignity? Her listening ear and willingness to take instruction? Perhaps it’s her earnestness and sense of justice. Or even her empathy and kindness? She is Light but can’t conceive of it because she will never perceive the Force. Just like she is beautiful but cannot comprehend it because all she sees in the mirror is that glaring scar. Well, he sees more. Lots more.

He sees a kindred spirit cheated out of her potential who ended up in the galaxy’s underworld. She lost everything and settled for less than she deserves. Given the opportunity, she could be capable of so much more. But first, she has to believe it and commit to it. She’s trying, just like he is. But starting anew is far harder than it appears when the first attempt ended so badly. Is she as afraid as he is? He doesn’t know what he fears worse with the rebels—failure or success. But either way, Rhea will be at his side. She can’t offer any expertise except moral support, but that’s surprisingly hard for him to come by. She believes in him and he needs that. It’s why he dug in today about her shooting at him. He wants her to trust him in all things. But she cared too much to do it, and that has him kissing her breathless like this is before Naboo and they’re headed to bed next.

Her arms entwine around his neck and she’s on her tiptoes. She’s so petite without those four-inch-high heel sandals that he’s hunched over to reach her. No problem. He can remedy that. He picks her up bodily and sets her on the table with the weapons and the towels. He never even breaks the kiss. Now, she’s the perfect height for the make out session he foolishly began and doesn’t want to end. 

His hands are all over her lekku and his mouth is sucking at her neck as she sighs out his name. His life has been marred by so much rejection that it’s glorious to be wanted even if it’s just her. He mentally curses the high collared, long sleeved uniform she’s wearing that leaves him precious little access to her skin. His determined hands shift to her narrow torso now to thumb at her breasts. They looked so good in that cocktail dress. Small but pert. He’s certain they are perfect beneath all this fabric.

He’s got her thoroughly worked up now. Himself as well. If this were his Apprentice days, he would strip her naked and they would go at it right here on the table. But she’s his virgin underling and his hands and lips have made promises his body can no longer fulfill. This is as far as it goes. It’s over. He’s through.

Maul steps back.

Rhea looks at him expectantly. Her eyes are heavy lidded and hazy with passion. Her lips are parted and ready for more. She’s never been more lovely than the way she looks at him right now. She’s utterly beguiling as she waits for what happens next. From her wanton and willing expression, it’s clear she would deny him nothing he could request.

But still, this ends here. Looking away, his own chest heaving and breathless like hers, Maul rasps, “That will be all. You are dismissed.”

He grabs the sword hilt next to her hip and stalks across the room to activate the battle droids. For now, more than ever, he needs to destroy things to vent his frustration. Plus, with his back to Rhea, he doesn’t have to see her reaction.

Yet again, Rhea balks. She won’t go quietly. “Why?? Why do you do this?” she stammers.

He busies himself with the droids, thereby avoiding having to turn around to see her hurt face. “I shouldn’t have done that. I won’t do it again.” It’s an apology of sorts.

It’s also the wrong thing to say. Because when he glances back, Rhea looks even more miserable than he imagined. Her lower lip starts trembling. Her eyes brim with tears. “Why do you do this?” she demands again. “Why do you treat me like this? You kiss me and—and—“ Her voice trails off into dismayed silence.

He turns back to the droids. “You are dismissed.”

“Did I do something wrong?” she squeaks. “I did, didn’t I? I really don’t know what to do . . . I don’t have much . . . I mean, I’ve never . . .”

Yes, he knows she has no experience with sex. That scar has made her an overripe virgin. She’ll probably go to bed with the first loser who gives her a second look, he thinks with a scowl. How he wishes he could be that man. But he can’t. He sighs and admits, “I can’t give you what you want.”

“I don’t understand.” She’s confused. “I don’t need anything from you.”

He repeats his vague explanation. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“Tell me what I did wrong and I will make it better. I won’t ask for favors. I won’t make demands.” She’s practically begging him now. It’s humiliating for them both. In a small voice she sheepishly volunteers, “I promise that no one will know.”

This is his own fault. He brought this moment on them both. But he can’t bring himself to explain. So he sticks to his words as he turns back around. “I can’t give you what you want. Rhea,” he holds her gaze and voices his true regret, “Little one, I wish I could.”

He finds a woman he’s desperate to bed. And not because she’s a conquest, but because he cares. Sex would finally mean something, but that pleasure is denied. It’s the story of his life—whether he’s watching Father heap praise on that pretender Vader on the holonet or staring out his office window at Rhea from afar—he wants what he can’t have. 

Red faced Rhea doggedly keeps bargaining now. “No commitments. No expectations. Nothing but you and me.”

Angry at himself and at the situation, he lashes out. “I told you I can’t be the man you need! Go to the barracks! Find someone who can,” he sneers.

She recoils at the suggestion and blinks at his harshness. “H-How can you say that??” She looks crushed. As always, there is no joy in dominating her. She’s not an enemy to subdue, she’s more like an ally—a close ally—well, maybe a friend—to encourage. But where was she when he was still intact and capable of being with a woman? She wasn’t even born. That alone ought to stop him from pursuing her.

“Go on!” he shoos her off. “Get out of here. Go find one of the guards to take to bed.” He’s upset and defensive, so in a rare moment he is crude. “Go fuck one and get it over with!” She should go choose some other gang member and then he can kill the lucky guy to vent his rage. Maybe he’ll kill Rhea too and he will never have to feel this humiliation ever again.

“You’re pushing me away,” she accuses as a tear leaks down one cheek. “I know what you’re doing. You’ve done this before.”

It’s true. He feels just as miserable as she looks now. But he holds firm to his secret. “That will be all. You are dismissed.” A scant few minutes ago, she was the one trying to leave and he wanted Rhea to stay. But now, he can’t get her to go. It’s like they are going around in circles.

“Why do you do this? I want to know. Are you playing games? Just toying with the ugly girl?” Before he can reply, Rhea outpours her insecurity. “You could have any woman, I know that. I mean, why would you want me? You could do so much better—"

“Stop it!” he hisses. He can’t listen to her diminish herself when he is the one who has the problem. But rather than explain, he punts. “This never should have gone this far. I’m too old for you. I’m almost twice your age and then some.”

“You’re not old—“

“I’m too old for you!” He is as intense now as he’s ever been as he warns, “I’m too dangerous for you . . . too damaged for you . . . too everything for you! Now, go! You are dismissed and you will obey me!” he commands.

“You’re afraid,” she realizes aloud in another one of her moments of penetrating insight. She looks to him. “What are you afraid of?”

“I will only hurt you. I could get you killed. I might kill you myself,” he threatens. He might do it too, if she finds another man. Because if he can’t have Rhea, no man will.

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Do not underestimate me!” he fires back. “There was once a Sith Lord who famously loved a beautiful Twi’lek long ago. She was his servant. A young girl far beneath him in every way. Like you,” he sneers. “But he loved her anyway. She became his weakness and his enemies knew it. And so, he killed her to destroy that weakness.”

Rhea looks him in the eye. “You won’t hurt me.”

“He took his sword and he drove it through her heart,” he continues the sad tale. “The last thing she saw was her lover murdering her because he couldn’t stand how much he loved her.”

Rhea is undeterred. “You’re no stranger to love. I know you loved your brother. And your mother. And you love your father still. Don’t pretend you don’t love. And besides, you don’t need to love me. You don’t even need to care about me. Sir, I won’t ask that of you.”

“Too late, little one,” he growls, “too late.” He’s been obsessed with this girl with the ruined face since he brought her home. And, stupidly, he acted on it. _Control your urges_. How Father would gloat in this moment if he only knew. But now, he’s trying to do the right thing and to protect his dignity in the process. Choosing the stiff upper lip like a Jedi, he now intones, “I want better for you than me.”

“Better?” Rhea is confused. “But you are a prince. The man who controls all the syndicates directly and indirectly. You are wealthy and powerful and—“

“I can’t give you what you want.” She won’t be gaslighted, so he volunteers a vague version of the truth. “I’m a broken-down wreck of a man. I can’t be what you need.”

“Is this about your legs? Because I don’t care about your metal feet.”

“It’s not just my legs.” He refuses to meet her eyes, taking refuge in the same non-answer answer. “I can’t give you what you want.”

She still doesn’t get it. “This can be our secret. Like the plot with the rebels. No one needs to know that you have been with an ugly scarred woman your gang rejected for the brothel—“

“Rhea,” he raises his voice, something he never does. “Let it go. This will never happen. I can’t give you what you want. I can’t be the man you want—"

“You keep saying that. What does that mean?? This is because of my scar, isn’t it? You’re ashamed of me.” The expression on her face is bleak. “It’s okay . . . I understand . . . all guys feel that way . . . I guess I just thought . . . you were different . . . ”

Fuck. Just . . . fuck. Maul closes his eyes and makes a decision. “Come here.”

She rushes forward as if to bury herself in his arms. But she hesitates as she sees his own troubled face. She stops a few paces away.

He says nothing as he tosses his sword hilt back onto the table. Then, he begins to unfasten his thick belt. It removes to reveal his high waisted, very blouson trousers that end just below his prosthetic knees. He begins to unfasten those next. This is not a striptease, it’s the best way he knows explain the problem he dreads putting into words. He will show Rhea rather than tell her.

When he’s done, he is fully undressed. His body is revealed—the remaining organic portion above his waist as well as the steel prosthetic that replaces everything below. The peculiarities of Zabrak anatomy mean all his essential organs survived his injury . . . but not his manhood. He looks like a protocol droid now. Flat hips and droid legs. He never bothered with a more elaborate prosthesis mostly because he’s turned off by the concept of a robo-phallus with zero sensation when he powerdrills a woman.

“Oh.” The syllable escapes her lips as she comprehends.

“When Kenobi took my legs, he took—“

“I see.” She flashes a weak attempt at a smile. Then, she rushes to assure him, “It’s alright. It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. This is one of many secrets of Darth Maul, and it’s the best kept one. But he trusts her. And besides, he owes her an explanation. Maul winces as he speaks the truth out loud. “I’m more machine now than man. I can no longer—“

“I’ve lived all this time without . . . er . . . that,” she interrupts awkwardly. “Maul, I don’t know what I’m missing. And I don’t care,” she adds staunchly, lifting her chin.

“You will care.”

“I won’t care,” Rhea promises again. 

“I care!” he snaps back. He lost so much to Kenobi. His body, his role as Apprentice, his future in the Empire, the respect of his father, and even the consortium of a woman. His defeat was devastating. So overwhelming that he lost his sanity for a time in order to cope.

His face must reveal all of that pain, for Rhea visibly swallows before she reups her offer. “Oh, Maul, we can still be with each other. Just not in that way.”

He shakes his head as he reaches down to retrieve his discarded clothing. “Don’t do this to us. Drop it. Just drop it.” He heads for the door, intending to salvage what’s left of his dignity in private.

But Rhea is having none of it. It’s a rare moment when this self-effacing housemaid rallies and states her wishes plainly, but she does now. “Do not walk away! Do not dismiss me! This conversation isn’t over.” She runs after him sounding almost imperious.

Rhea lays a hand on his arm and he halts. “We were over before we even began,” he apologizes as best he can. It sounds stilted to his own ears. “I led you on, I know. I just . . . I just . . . You’re—you’re . . . you.”

It’s his turn for an uncharacteristic moment now. He’s fumbling for words. But he can’t find the right way to tell her that she feels safe for him. That he’s actually a bit relieved she knows the truth since she already knows so many other secrets. He trusts her, and that is not an easy thing for a Sith. Maybe someday he will tell her all that happened after Kenobi won and that will give her the full context for the meaning of this moment. Because initially when he confronted his injuries, he lost his mind from the enormity of the implications. It’s taken decades for him to get to this point when he can reveal himself to someone other than a medic. And so, as humiliating and discouraging as his predicament is, it’s also strangely empowering to face up to it with Rhea. He knows she won’t reject him for it.

“We could be happy together,” she whispers.

“Yes,” he sighs. He looks away from her pleading brown eyes. “Isn't it pretty to think so?“

“No,” she corrects him fast. “I said that wrong. We can be happy together. We can still be—“

He shakes his head. “Don’t tell me that we can be friends.” He has utterly failed at keeping Rhea in the friend zone or the underling category. Besides, Sith don’t have friends. They have enemies and allies. There is no third option.

“This is why you push me away . . .” Rhea finally comprehends why he has acted so coldly towards her at times.

He is sheepish at the defense mechanism. “I never set out to hurt you.” He’s a Sith, but he’s no sadist. Especially not for little Rhea whose plight caught his attention immediately. He saw so much of himself in her.

“The Jedi you hunt did this, right? Ken—“

“Kenobi,” he supplies the hated name.

“Right, well, then you find him. Y-You find him and you k-kill him!” Rhea is now almost shouting up at his face as she waves an emphatic finger beneath his nose. She’s just shy of hysterical with intensity as she threatens, “Or maybe, I will kill him myself for doing this to you! Because I hate him! I hate that Jedi for what he has done!”

It’s the sweetest thing she could ever say to him. His Twi’lek housemaid has never been more alluring than in this moment. All breathless hate and vehement anger. Coming from a girl so full of Light, her sudden shift to Darkness on his behalf is compelling. 

Rhea dissolves into tears now. Her hands grip his forearms. “Oh, Maul, I’m so sorry. How you have suffered. The Jedi hurt you, the Sith hurt you Oh, you don’t deserve this. And it’s way, way worse than I knew—“

“Life isn’t fair,” he answers her wailing with calm resignation. “You get what you get, whether you deserve it or not. You know that, little one. You are no stranger to suffering.”

His mouth settles into a grim line. “There is no such thing as justice. This isn’t a wrong that can be made right. There is only revenge.” He scowls. “It’s like your face.”

She nods and wipes at her eyes. Then, impetuously she throws herself into his arms. “Hold me—“

He stands there stoically. Not pushing her away but not embracing her either. “Don’t start again—“

“Yes!” She clasps him tighter now, her mangled cheek pressed against his chest tattoos. “Hold me. If we must suffer, let us suffer together. They can take your legs, they can take my face, but they can’t take this.”

Here is the stubborn defiant streak that makes her a rebel. This is the determination that impressed him enough to take her on as a conspirator. Her cause is him now. Well, really, it’s them. Childishly, she thinks some platonic devotion will suffice. And it won’t. Not in the long term. Great love affairs are never unconsummated. Besides, this isn’t some child’s storybook romance, they are adults. This is the real world where happy endings are often elusive even under the best of circumstances.

But her warm body feels good pressed against his. People underrate the need for physical touch. How much that connection matters in primal ways. Whether it’s a mother’s comfort, or a lover’s embrace, maybe a brotherly high five, or a friendly hug, we are hardwired to respond. And he has been years without this sensation of bare skin on bare skin. So when her arms creep up around his neck to pull his face down, he responds. The belt and trousers drop to the floor and the gloves and saber fall on top. Then, after a lengthy kiss, Maul pulls back.

It’s not very Sith, but he feels the need to confirm. “You want this? You’re sure you want this?” He doesn’t want to coerce.

“Yes,” Rhea answers. The Force relays her sincerity.

That’s all he needs to know. In an unexpected move, he scoops her up and heads for the bedroom. 

He’s already naked, but Rhea is fully clothed still. His younger self would remedy that situation immediately with his signature panties-to-the-floor-with-the-Force move that left a trail of one-night stands across the Rim thirty years ago. But now, he takes his time. You can’t rush the foreplay when foreplay is all you have.

And so, he unzips her uniform dress and tugs it up over head. It’s peekaboo for adults that ends with a deep kiss. His mouth next wanders down from the nape of her neck to her bra strap before he unhooks it. His hands trace the shallow curve of her hip as he slides down her utilitarian cotton panties. No Force this time, just the usual means. 

Rhea stands still and quiet beneath his touch. She’s equal parts terrified and excited. It adds to the intensity of the moment. It helps that she looks at him with absolute trust. That’s a turn-on if there ever was one for a Sith. For Darkness loves despoiling innocence that volunteers.

This won’t be the usual seduction. Still, he’s determined to make it matter. The normal urgency of the sex act is gone now that there is no drive to the finish line. No throbbing red cock to be thrust in hard until it’s sated. Selfish Sith that he is, he can no longer see to his own needs first. But he’s a Nightbrother and historically his brethren were called upon to please women. Sex on Dathomir wasn’t strictly for procreation. Tonight certainly won’t be.

He lays Rhea back on his messy tangled bedsheets. Late afternoon sunlight streams in from the windows, giving her lush green skin a luminous quality. There is no sound in the room but her high sighs and low moans. They both pant hard between open mouthed kisses.

He explores the hollows of her neck and the slope of her throat. Now is his chance to admire her sweet little breasts. To salute them with licks. To suck and nip at them.

“You are mine now. Do you hear me?” he growls into her skin. “Mine.”

She sighs, “Yes, Maul,” as she fingers his horns. She loves his horns, he’s learning.

He looks up from her torso, to warn her sternly. “I will kill any man you let touch you. And then I will kill you as well.”

She smiles like it’s an endearment. “Yes, Maul.” Her eyes are soft and unfocused. Her expression is sublime.

“You are mine,” he stakes his claim again between quick kisses trailing lower. She is his now and forever. Bonded to him by secrets and by treason. By gang allegiance and by this passion. She will be at his side going forward, by day his housemaid and sometime lieutenant and by night his lover. Because now that he has allowed himself to be exposed for what he is to Rhea, he demands everything in return. There is no exit strategy for her. She knows too much to ever leave him. 

Rhea agrees. Throwing her head back against the pillow as she arches her back, she moans, “I am yours. I will only ever be yours,” as his hands dip between her thighs. Now his lips follow to where his hands have been and Rhea gives up any attempt at talking.

He coaxes and teases her again and again. One time will not suffice. He will exhaust her with pleasure, basking in the mental feel of her climax in the Force. It’s secondhand and unsatisfying, but it’s the closest he can get to the experience for himself.

When it’s over, she lays atop him, all arms and legs and lekku splayed everywhere across his flesh and steel. She’s soft, warm, and relaxed as he strokes her back. The afterglow is soothing, which he needs right now.

They’re not in love, but they are both in pain. Looking for comfort and purpose that only someone else who similarly suffers can understand. She’ll never be his equal. He will only abuse her compassion and betray her ideals. But he will never betray her. Rhea is far too precious to squander. He likes her empathy and he values her trust. And so, this one-time Dark Lord of the Sith will watch over her Light for safekeeping. It will be all for him. Mine, all mine, he plots covetously.

As he feels her mind and body relax onto the cusp of sleep, he whispers an old charm that gently lulls her to slumber. Force sleep is harmless and deep. It’s just what he needs to slip away unnoticed. Gently, he rolls Rhea over and off of him. Then, he tucks her in under the covers.

Maul stalks purposely back to his training gym. He lights his sword and activates five battle droid opponents with the Force. He missed his earlier, sorely needed workout, and now his mind is especially tense and upset. He is angry, so very angry at all that he has lost in life. Most especially tonight at the loss of the physical and emotional outlet of sex. He deals with this frustration and pain the only way he knows how: violence. Methodically, he sets to work destroying things.

An hour later, his rage is spent. He wanders back to the bedroom to wake Rhea. He smiles down at her as she rouses. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Rhea sits up on her elbows. “I must have dozed off. What time is it?” She glances around and sees the twilight outside. “Oh, no! Mrs. Nettles will be furious!” Rhea chokes. “I’m late for the dinner service.”

He’s unconcerned. “Tell her you were working with me. Marisol will vouch for you.”

But naked Rhea is already swiping her dress off the floor.

He’s amused. “Is my housekeeper so terrifying?”

“Oh, yes,” she assures him. Rhea yanks the dress over her head and contorts as she reaches to zip it up.

“Here, let me help,” Maul inserts himself, waving a finger to fasten it with the Force.

“Thanks.” She’s looking around now. “Where are my—“

“Looking for these?” He dangles her panties between two fingers.

“Thank you.” She dons them fast.

“No bra?”

“No time,” she answers as she jumps into her discarded ankle boots. “Besides, I barely need a bra,” she admits. “I guess you know that now.”

“No goodbye kiss?” He crosses his arms and looks down disapprovingly.

“No time, Sir.”

“Bring me dinner at least?”

“Of course.”

“Bring some for you as well,” he calls after her fast retreating figure.

Rhea rushes off to work. He heads for a shower and then does some work himself. Then, an hour later, she’s back at his door with dinner.

“Aren’t you eating?” he asks when he perceives the usual tray she carries.

Rhea shakes her head as she sets it down in front of him. “Not really. Well, sort of.” She flashes a sheepish smile. “There’s an extra piece of cake here for me.”

Maul shakes his head in mock reproof at this transgression. “Stealing cake from the kitchen. Little one, look how I have led you astray.” He reaches for a fork and swipes a big dollop of icing from the top of the pilfered piece. Then he feeds it to her. She smacks her lips like a child as she relishes the sweet.

Watching her, he wonders now if he can have his cake and eat it too? Will the Force finally reward his long suffering with the success and satisfaction it has denied him? Because he’s due. He’s long overdue. He hopes finding Rhea and getting preliminarily accepted by the rebels are signs of more good things to come.

“You eat while I go put these on,” Rhea tells him as she bustles for the bedroom. And that’s when he realizes that she has brought a set of clean sheets along with the dinner tray.

He stands in the office doorway watching her efficiently strip the bed they laid in that afternoon. “You’re good at that,” he comments.

She smiles at the praise. “I worked at a brothel, remember? We changed the sheets between customers. I learned to do it fast.”

He sees her pause as she rubs a finger across a brown yellow stain. He rushes to explain, “Rhea, my knees are essentially hydraulics. They leak sometimes. And I have to oil the other exterior joints as well. It makes stains.” Stains that he doesn’t like to reveal to anyone for fear of questions. It’s why his sheets are seldom washed.

She’s nonplussed. “We have plenty of sheets if these don’t come clean.”

She’s so casual about it that he decides he might as well disclose it all since Rhea knows his secret. So feeling extremely embarrassed, he continues, “My body isn’t what it once was. That means I leak more than oil and hydraulic fluid. The . . . uh . . . remains of me sometimes leak as well.” Did he really say that out loud? He did.

“I saw the bloodstains earlier,” she replies softly. “It’s why I thought this could use a change.”

It’s gently said. And it omits any reference to the random urine and feces traces that seep as well. Force bless this woman for her tact, he thinks to himself.

“I can’t predict when it will happen—“ he begins, mortified now at the chance she may have found some of it on herself earlier when she dressed.

Rhea just smiles. “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

She can, he realizes. Yes, she can handle it. And one day, he suspects, she can handle hearing the tale of Savage finding him insane and alone living amid junk. He rambled around on homemade spider legs back then and lived incontinent in his own waste. But that’s not a tale for today. He wants nothing to ruin today.

She’s done now so he beckons her back into the office. “More cake?” he solicits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to Ernest Hemmingway for the paraphrased ending exchange from The Sun Also Rises. Bonus points to anyone who knows the SW Legends characters Maul refers to in the tale of the Sith Lord who murders his girlfriend. Extra bonus point for anyone who’s read my slightly different version of the tale in my fic DARKER (which is still the best story I’ve written).


	15. chapter 15

The treason now begins in earnest. They move past the planning phase and into overt actions. That requires Rhea to accompany Maul to the five bases of operation where he intends to conceal rebel activity.

The boss of Crimson Dawn does not reveal the truth of his plans to his local lieutenants. He tells them that the gang is moving into arms dealing. The expansion is in the exploratory phase, so the new business segment is to be kept ultra-secret. Most especially from their criminal competition. Maul doesn’t want the Pikes or the Hutts informing on him to the Imperial authorities.

Next, Maul starts spending Darth Plagueis’ credits. With Rhea sitting in on the meetings, he summons several weapons dealers with whom he has prior dealings to the Dathomir compound. He places large orders. Each time at the conclusion, Maul leans forward from behind his enormous ceremonial desk and warns, “If you go tell the Pikes or the Hutts that I’m arming Crimson Dawn to drum up business from them, I will kill you . . . slowly.” It’s a threat everyone believes he will make good on.

It’s also a strategic play. Maul is dropping hints to his underworld rivals, underlings, and suppliers to create the inference that he is gearing up to start a full-scale gang war. That way, if the Imperials take note of what’s going on, they may opt to stay out of it.

There is predicate for that sort of thing. Back in the days of the old Republic, a renegade Hutt allied with a Pike capo tried to take over the Hutt Clan and consolidate power. The coup attempt failed, but it launched a long and bloody war between the Hutts and the Pike syndicate that lasted years. Only the outbreak of the Clone Wars disrupting business led to the cessation of hostilities. Because in the end, while the warring crime factions hated one another, they loved credits more. The sides agreed to a ceasefire so they could focus on navigating the ever-changing landscape of wartime galactic trade. Neither the Confederacy nor the Republic ever bothered to intervene, and the conflict ultimately resolved itself.

But buying provisions to outfit a military from scratch is not as easy as it sounds. Even with the cash readily available, there are obstacles. Aside from the obvious secrecy concerns, there are only so many hovertanks and starfighters available for purchase in the marketplace at any given time. And shifty arms dealers tend to overpromise, Rhea soon discovers, when they sense a hungry purchaser with deep pockets. That leads to conflict.

She accompanies Maul to confront one such dealer who fails to make good on his end of the bargain. Unlike routine gang business that often functions remotely, this meeting—like all meetings involving the rebellion plot—is held in person. No one will hazard the risk of a security breach from a comcall that might be recorded or traced.

Maul enters and dispenses with the pleasantries as usual. This time, Rhea doesn’t step up to do the greeting. Her job in these situations is mostly to act as stone faced, silent witness. She follows Maul’s advice to be aggressive without saying a word. She just stares with her ruined face that makes people uncomfortable. Normally, that would make her uncomfortable as well and lead to Rhea to avert her cheek or touch her face with self-consciousness. But Maul has gently—and persistently—discouraged her from those ingrained habits. Let them look, he instructs, and don’t offer an explanation. Make them wonder. So, she does. For as always, Rhea aims to please.

Invited to sit, Maul sprawls lazily in a chair across from his human counterpart. He’s got his sword in his lap and Rhea standing over his left shoulder where he likes her. After the arms dealer and Maul eye one another coldly for a full minute, Maul throws back his concealing hood. Rhea knows this characteristic gesture as a signal he’s ready to get started.

“I know what you’re here about,” the visibly nervous seller is conciliatory from the outset.

Maul cuts him off with an imperious wave of his gauntleted hand. “Imagine my surprise when we were delivered twenty scatch-and-dent Clone Wars Y-wings this week.”

“Yes, well—about t-that--“

Again, Maul cuts off the seller. The Sith continues as though there has been no interruption. He muses, “I thought to myself there must be some mistake. For no one would be so foolish as to attempt to bait and switch Crimson Dawn with old Y-wings when we purchased new U-wings.”

“I need more time!” the seller blurts out. His explanation is a rush of words. “My contact at Incom couldn’t come through. He was only g-good for ten U-wings and they were already promised to another customer.”

“They were promised to me,” Maul purrs. He’s at his most dangerous when he speaks this way, Rhea knows.

“Yes! Yes! When the next batch comes off the line in two months’ time, you’ll get first crack at it! Until then, e-enjoy those r-reconditioned Y-wings!” the seller yelps.

“Those are junk,” Maul snaps.

The seller disagrees. He sputters out his view. “They’re still the workhorse of the galaxy—t-those ships are very popular with local system militaries—t-they’ll outrun most freighters in current use. So when you go shoot down spice shipments for the Hutts, you’ll still have the a-advantage,” he promises.

“They’re slow.”

“Is this about Imperial trouble? Because they’ll outrun most Imperial starships. And not just the local bulk cruisers, m-mind you. I’m talking about the big Corellian ships n-now. They’re fast enough for you. Y-You’ll see.”

“They’re slow, old, and small. I want a bigger ship that can carry more ordnance.”

“What are you planning to take on the whole Empire yourself or something?” The skittish dealer squints across at Maul. “L-Look, a bigger ship is a disadvantage. It uses more hyperfuel and it’s less maneuverable. Trust me, you want something small for a hit-and-run raid on the c-competition.”

“I need a big bomber with a better hyperdrive.”

“Negative. You want small and anonymous looking,” the fast-talking man tries to salvage a deal. “Look, you can make those Y-wings appear like cops easily. It will take the heat off Crimson Dawn for reprisals, y-you’ll see. You really want Y-wings, you just don’t know it.”

“Are you persuaded, Rhea?” Maul pretends to solicit her opinion as he glances upward to where she hovers.

That’s her cue to pipe up with maximum swagger. “Size matters. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Maul smirks as he turns back to his counterpart. “You heard the lady. She likes a big ship. We paid for big ships, and we want big ships. You have forty-eight hours to fulfill the bargain as originally agreed. Get me my U-wings,” Maul manages to make a simple request sound like a threat.

In the end, Maul gets a few U-wings and the promise of more. He also keeps the Y-wings at a very advantageous price. He is persuaded by the logic that they can be made to look like local system authorities with the right paint job, call signs, and stolen security codes. That could come in handy for future rebel terror missions, he decides.

Then, he continues going about his business procuring weapons. Maul is uniquely situated to buy military grade assets under the radar. For none in the arms dealing community questions why Crimson Dawn wants portable shield generators often used to conceal contraband shipments. And no one wonders why Maul wants state-of-the-art code breaking capabilities and encryption technology. No one even blinks an eye at his bulk purchases of blasters, ammunition, and grenades. Those items fit well within his known line of work.

But the procurement of spacecraft continues to be problematic. Maul complains that he needs ships that can keep pace with the Empire’s TIE variants. From the basic short-range fighters to the hyperdrive equipped souped-up models, TIE fighters set a high standard. Only a few available alternative models are competitive. But Maul doggedly pursues them all.

It fits with his overall strategy of outfitting a nimble rebel strike force. Maul wants a military that moves with speed and stealth so it can amass to hit a target and then dissipate immediately. This hit-and-run philosophy is key to his vision of the coming war. The rebels will be the underdogs fighting an asymmetrical conflict. Maul doesn’t want to even try to compete with the big Imperial cruisers and star destroyers. Same with the ground-based AT-AT walkers. Instead, he plans to use their cumbersome size and unwieldy nature against them.

The Imperial military, Maul reasons, is designed to confront an equal. All of its major assets are newer, improved models of Clone Wars-era Republic equipment. And those original models were designed to attack and defend against a highly mechanized, well equipped opponent. In many ways, Maul tells Rhea, the Republic and the Confederacy were a match of equals. 

Not so with the emerging rebel alliance. They will not engage the Empire head to head. They will not attempt to match the enemy’s overwhelming force capabilities. Instead, Maul focuses on equipment that can avoid confrontation. He wants a military that can attack, scatter, and then hide so it can live to fight another day. Insurgents win by surviving, he contends.

Major Draven is completely on board with this approach. While Maul sets to work buying equipment, Draven focuses on building a rebel intelligence outfit. He wants a network of embedded rebel spies within and without the Imperial forces. He busies himself cultivating information sources aggressively from all corners of the galaxy.

For his part, Raddus, the third man in the triumvirate of rebel military leaders, stays out of the way. The Mon Calamari patriot turns out to be a rather irascible and plain-spoken man. He tells Maul to do whatever he wants from a procurement standpoint. 

“Buy anything and everything you can get your hands on,” Raddus advises, “because we will find a way to use it all. Mark my words,” he shakes his flipper fin at Maul, “this will come to war.”

Sensing a kindred spirit, Maul nods gravely.

“Mothma thinks this will all be won by my makeshift navy,” the big alien grouses. “She’s wrong, of course. She knows nothing about actual warfare,” Raddus complains, “although spending time at Clone Wars Senate military briefings has convinced her otherwise. She speaks the lingo, but her actual knowledge is superficial.” The Mon Cal refugee sniffs. “The politicians all want to position themselves to be the hero who can broker peace. But the Empire will not be toppled by peace.”

Again, Maul nods. “There will be blood.”

“Organa gets it,” Raddus confides, “but he likes to straddle both ends of the spectrum of opinion on the matter. It’s the typical Alderaan stuff. That world talks a big game about peace and negotiations, but deep-down Bail Organa knows war is inevitable.”

“Good to know,” Maul responds.

“Organa won’t get in our way,” the Mon Calamari judges. “He’s hands off. The only time he climbs down from his ivory tower to get his hands dirty is when there are Jedi involved.”

Maul’s ears immediately perk up. “Are there Jedi in the rebellion?”

Raddus shrugs. “If there are, none will admit to it.” He explains, “Bail Organa made Alderaan something of a sanctuary for Jedi fugitives for a while until Vader got wind of it. Organa smuggled them out with the help of one of our financial backers. That’s how we got hooked up with the guy. The Senator vouched for him.”

“Venamis?” Maul guesses the current alias of Darth Plagueis. He’s a somewhat improbable choice for a Jedi rescuer, Rhea thinks to herself.

“Yes,” Raddus confirms. “Those two are up to their ears in hiding Jedi, but we all pretend not to know it.”

“Why aren’t the Jedi helping you? This seems like a cause for a Jedi if there ever was one.”

“Truthfully? Mothma doesn’t like the attention the Jedi might attract. She worries they will lead the authorities to us. And that sort of risk isn’t worth it.”

The gruff Mon Calamari now appraises Maul. “You’re our Jedi now, I hear.”

Rhea smothers a smile at the comment.

“I’m not a Jedi.”

“Heard you were a witch or something.”

“That’s right.”

The big-headed humanoid grunts. “No one knows what that means. Call yourself a Jedi. Everyone knows what a Jedi means,” Raddus tells him bluntly.

Maul is amused. “Do you know what I do? Do you know who I am?”

“I am aware.”

“Then you are aware that I’m not a Jedi.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re Jedi enough. You’re on the good side now, aren’t you?” the ever-pragmatic Raddus reasons. “Maul, you have a colorful past. You’re a disruptor, and I like that. We don’t need more rule followers in this rebellion. And that witch business is a big point in your favor, as far as I’m concerned. You’re a Jedi without the downside. I hear you’ve got the skills but not the Inquisitors chasing you.”

“That’s right.”

“Good.” In an unexpected move, the humanoid fish claps Maul on the back. “Glad you’re here. I bet you’re good in a fight.” Raddus then stomps away to go bluster at someone else, leaving Rhea and Maul behind.

Rhea is one of very few people who can see past the tribal tattoos to recognize the subtle play of emotions that cross Maul’s face. That small moment of acceptance from Raddus resonates deeply. So much of the unacknowledged context here is Maul’s quest for vindication, his need for recognition, and his hope for a second chance. But only Rhea knows that, and she’s not letting on. She just looks on proudly with a little knowing smile tugging at her lips.

Maul catches her. “Stop it,” he grumbles. He’s embarrassed.

“I didn’t say a thing.”

“Your mind is screaming at me, little one. Think of something else.”

“Yes, Sir,” she dutifully responds. But then she nestles her hand into his as they head for the hangar bay. Amid the rebels, they are far less discreet about their relationship than at home at the compound.

“Would you switch sides?” Rhea asks when they are in private back at the ship. It’s a serious question. “Would you consider flipping Jedi?”

Maul smirks and brushes her off. “I doubt the Jedi would have me.”

“Does that matter? Are there any Jedi around to tell you no?”

“That’s not the point. I’m not a Jedi.”

“Does the label matter?”

Maul slants her a sideways glance. “Apparently, it matters to you.”

“It matters to the rebels. They like the Jedi,” Rhea points out.

“Little one, the difference between me and a Jedi is more than semantics and the color of our swords. Shifting Dark to Light or Light to Dark is like a religious conversion. It’s an about-face in mindset. When it happens, there is always fallout. Force users are change makers, and they beget enormous collateral damage in that moment. You don’t jump ship from Team Sith to Team Jedi without consequences.”

“I see.” Rhea backs down. She doesn’t really know the lore of the Force. So much of what Maul describes is an abstraction to her. “I guess that was a stupid question.” Maybe even an offensive question. She is sheepish now.

“It would make more sense if you could feel the Force,” Maul responds gently.

“I’ll never do that,” she frets. And that could prove to be a problem. Rhea worries Maul will tire of her eventually for that reason. That she will bore him in the long term because she cannot share that very important aspect of his life. He worries that she will go seeking sex from another man—which she won’t—and she worries he will go seeking the Force some Jedi girl—which he might, even though he swears otherwise. 

“Rhea, my Master may have stripped me of my title, but I am a Sith through and through.”

“Except when you are acting as a Nightbrother,” she counters softly.

“So true,” he concedes. He gives her an appraising, approving look. “You know me well.” These days, he seems more pleased by that than threatened.

Whether it’s trips to confront arms dealers or more meetings with the rebel leaders, Rhea and Maul are seen together often. She finds that being by his side gives her courage. It’s because he is a feared underworld kingpin who others know better than to cross. Also, because he is a Dark Sith prince with the magic Force and a double-bladed red sword. He plots with Senators to at least ostensibly unseat an Emperor who is in fact his father. Because this native son of Dathomir is a man who stalks history.

He is all those things . . . and yet he chooses her. That’s the most empowering aspect of all. Maul could have any woman he wants and she is his choice. He dresses her in gorgeous clothes, rehearses with her what to say and do, and then he trots her out to the galaxy as his assistant. She’s a prop more than she is a co-conspirator. For Maul certainly doesn’t need her help or advice. Mostly she’s just along for the ride because it amuses him. She’s his junior housemaid who he passes off as his trusted lieutenant.

Is she nothing without him? Probably so. It doesn’t matter though. She can’t leave him. Not that she wants to. First the gang gave her security, now its leader gives her an identity and some burgeoning self-worth. Maul is one part mentor, one part father, and one part lover. In return for all those roles, grateful Rhea is devoted to him.

They make a striking pair. Him with the mechanical legs, tattooed face, and crown of horns. Her with the shapely trailing headtails, long neck, and mismatched cheeks. Outwardly, they are dangerous and distinctive. And increasingly, together they are the face of Crimson Dawn to everyone from rebel Senators, to spice cartel members, to arms merchants. 

Glance at her from the right direction and perceive the gangster’s mol. She’s predictably young and pretty, and dressed like a Coruscant society princess. She’s even a Twi’lek . . . how cliché. But glance again and catch the other side and recoil from the face that makes a rathtar look pretty. It’s grotesque in its unapologetic stare that silently judges you for looking. One idiot assistant to a gun runner has the poor grace to comment on her injury and Maul chokes him unconscious with the Force. The boss is protective of his girl with the challenging eyes and the ruined face. As the Sith lord steps past his victim, he sniffs, “Apology accepted,” then goes on about his business. The message is clear: don’t diss Maul or anything that’s his.

But does anyone back at Dathomir suspect what goes on behind closed doors between her and Maul? Or are they fooling everyone that they are merely colleagues? Rhea continues to accompany Maul almost weekly on missions for the rebels, but most days she is simply the junior housemaid. Then by night, she and Maul work on the rebellion project, share some dinner, and inevitably end up in each other’s arms. It’s not always sex. Much of the time, it’s just cuddling on the couch and being together. But one night when Rhea nods off with her head on Maul’s shoulder, she wakes up snuggled tight to him in bed the next morning. That evening, Maul wants her to stay again. And that’s how Rhea begins the habit of sleeping over. But she’s careful to always be up early and back to her own room down the hall from Mrs. Nettles every morning just to keep up appearances.   
  


It’s lovely, really. Even on his grumpiest days—and Maul can be plenty grumpy—he is never short tempered with her. Do you need some space tonight, Rhea asks after one particularly ugly business confrontation results in her and Marisol cleaning up copious bloodstains. No, he beckons her forward from the doorway where she stands with the dinner tray. Come in, little one. Light my Darkness, he invites. In time, she will learn that violence actually relaxes Maul. It’s a form of stress release.  
  


When they are together, Maul talks about his business some, and the rebellion more, but mostly he speaks of the distant past. Of his early years running wild as a child in the forest glades of Dathomir before he knew anything of the outside galaxy. He was the favorite son of the Nightsisters, indulged and cosseted by doting women wherever he went. They wanted his mother’s goodwill and the blessing of the Force for all knew his red skin signified his importance.   
  


The coven was ripe with travails, like any society is, but Maul remembers a verdant world bursting with Force. Where mother figures abounded and everything from the phases of the moon to the planet’s solstices were cause for reverence. The witches saw the invisible hand of the Force in everything. That’s why their sometimes morbid occult practices in truth reflected a deep and abiding respect for life. The Nightsisters acknowledged the full circle of life experience, which naturally included death. But they were no more fixated on the end of life than they were on its beginnings and middle phases. The sisters gloried in life’s natural cycles, as well as its abundance, its interdependence, and its renewal. Maul recalls it all in wistful detail. Rhea listens closely to the particulars, but all she hears is the prevailing theme of nostalgia for a time when Maul was loved.   
  


Rhea’s hears too about Maul’s years of education and training. From the age of ten, he grew up on the Palpatine family estate on Naboo where the Emperor’s family had been prominent and influential for generations. Maul was the beneficiary of that aegis, for he was known publicly to be Senator Sheev Palpatine’s ward. The moniker of ‘father’ is no exaggeration either, for Rhea learns that Maul used the Palpatine surname tacked on the end of his own birthname Maul Opress. For all intents and purposes, the Apprentice truly was an adopted son.   
  


“Does that make Darth Plagueis something like your grandfather?” Rhea wonders. 

“No,” Maul is quick to answer. “My Master’s Master was a remote presence at best. He and Father did not get along at that point. But Plagueis is the reason Father adopted me and we lived as a family.” Maul explains, “Plagueis wanted to abolish the Rule of Two that had persisted for countless generations. He envisioned a future with several Sith overlords ruling together, akin to the days of the ancient Sith Empire. We would be an extended family of sorts, allied in purpose, raised with near kinship bonds, each sharing in the mutual success. Plagueis wanted to dispense with the ‘kill and replace’ cycle of ascension in favor multiple lords all serving his will as Emperor.”   
  


“You mean he wanted you all to get along?” she summarizes.  
  


“Essentially.”   
  


“That didn’t happen.”  
  


Maul smirks at her rare sarcasm. “No, it didn’t. Plagueis thought Father saw the future like he did. Father did not. Darth Bane was right—there can be no team of rivals on the Dark Side. There can only be one Master and one Apprentice, or there will be trouble afoot . . . like now.”   
  


Maul turns out to have multiple university degrees in addition to his Sith training. Plagueis insisted, Maul recalls, and Father didn’t disagree. Back then, I was expected to rule the galaxy with them. So, I needed to understand subjects like law and business. I was raised for greatness, he says glumly, not for crime. My father and his Master wanted me to have all the credentials and experience necessary to lead.   
  


They also wanted him to know the ways of the Force in the ideology of the Sith. It is a long and storied tradition that encompasses different methods and approaches, Maul explains. But all are rigorous, with a focus on suffering and deprivation as a path to empowerment and excellence. That meant a lot of emphasis on combat, on concentration, and on strategy. Unlike Vader who can now call in an air strike to deal with a problem, Maul complains, I was the Apprentice at a time when brute force was rarely the first option. I had to think my way out of a problem. Father excels at that sort of thing, Maul says proudly. Plagueis too.   
  


The relationship Maul describes between Master and Apprentice, between the famous adoptive father and the obscure chosen son, was intense. It was also highly personal, Rhea realizes. For Darth Sidious was cultivating his greatest ally and potentially his most feared rival. The Emperor wouldn’t want Maul to grow to eclipse him, but he needed his student to be formidable. It was a delicate matter of judgement, clearly. But Darth Sidious evidently excelled at this too, for his Apprentice is still very much on the fence about killing his Master even after all that has transpired through the years.   
  


Sheev Palpatine knew what he was doing when he plucked a young boy from his idyllic life, Rhea judges silently. The Emperor may have showered opportunity and luxury on young Maul, but he knew to withhold what the growing boy needed most: love. For Maul describes a father who was more controlling than caring. Who was largely absent for long stretches of his adolescence. And who delighted in punishment for small infractions. All in all, aspects of the relationship strike Rhea as abusive and manipulative, and often unduly harsh. But Maul either can’t see it or refuses to see it. He thinks his Master’s actions come from a place of love. That Palpatine was hard on him because he wanted so much for him. So, Rhea keeps quiet.   
  


She talks about her own upbringing as well. It sounds very wholesome and privileged in retrospect, probably because it was. She had two professional parents who were committed to each other and to their children. If mom and dad fought, they never did it in front of Rhea and her sister. Life could be harried and chaotic with conflicting work schedules and after school activities. But they muddled through. Everyone did their best to accommodate others and it usually worked out. Tears and raised voices were rare in her household.  
  


Rhea didn’t live on a secluded, sprawling country estate, she lived in an urban apartment in Ryloth’s largest city. She grew up a city girl, walking everywhere amidst the hustle and bustle of so many other people. That dense environment made for mass casualties when the war came. Rhea tells Maul about walking home from school with her sister only to find herself in the middle of a bombing raid. Things went dark and she woke up in a Republic medical station to the news that her sister was dead and her face was a permanent mess. By that time, her surgeon mother had already been killed while on duty at the local hospital. Rhea never found her father, she tells Maul, though she tried. She really tried. The social workers helped too, but no one made any real progress. For the galaxy was a chaotic mess at the conclusion of the war, with refugees scattered.

That prompts Maul to renew his offer to search for her father. Rhea declines again. “If he’s alive, I don’t know what I would say to him now after all this time,” she admits. She was a teenaged girl when they parted, and now she’s a grown woman whose life has taken turns neither of them imagined. It’s a question Rhea poses to Maul now as they lay in each other’s arms: “What would you say to your father?” 

He takes his time before answering. “In a perfect world, I would tell him that I have slain Kenobi and taken my revenge like a Sith should. But I despair of ever finding my nemesis,” he laments.   
  


“Why does he hide?” Rhea asks.   
  


Maul slants yellow eyes her direction. “There’s purge on, or haven’t you heard?”  
  


“But you said Kenobi beat Vader and he beat you as well--so who’s left for him to be afraid of? Why isn’t that Jedi working with the rebels to take on the Emperor?” From all that she has surreptitiously read about General Obi-Wan Kenobi on the holonet, he’d definitely be the hero rebel type.  
  


“I don’t know,” Maul shakes his head. “Kenobi is no coward, that’s for certain. The man I knew was always in the center of the action. He hides for a reason . . . but I don’t know what . . .” Maul theorizes, “Maybe he’s protecting Grandmaster Yoda . . . or maybe he considers himself the keeper of the Jedi tradition and he must not take risks if they are to survive . . . I don’t know . . . it is a riddle . . . ”  
  


Maul is back on the topic of reuniting with his father now. “If I saw Father, I would tell him that I am stronger now than before. That I have grown from my losses. That I am more Dark than ever. More Sith.”  
  


“So you think he would be proud of you?” This is the sticking point for Rhea’s own search for her father.  
  


“Yes. And proud that his actions helped to make me who I am.”  
  


“But Maul—”

“It’s true.”

Rhea is appalled at this revisionist version of Palpatine’s rejection. She says so: “You’re excusing him for what he did—“  
  


“In many ways, he made me who I am. When he abandoned me, he took away everything. That forced me to find my own way. But now, I’m ready to come home. To be the lord he tried to raise, not a criminal.”  
  


This is Rhea’s fear voiced out loud. She cringes, “So you would reconcile if you could?”  
  


Maul’s glum face is cold. “There can be no reconciliation with Vader still in the picture. Little one, I have to kill Vader.”  
  


“The Rule of Two?”  
  


“Yes.”  
  


“But what about holding the Emperor responsible for his actions?” she persists.  
  


“The Force will have to do that. I cannot.”  
  


“He’s too powerful,” she guesses.   
  


“He’s my father.” Maul shakes his head ruefully. He is resigned as he says what she already knows. “I can’t kill my own father.”  
  


Rhea swallows hard. “Then the Emperor has already won . . .”  
  


“He won long ago. If I can’t beat him, I need to join him. That’s how power works.” Maul reaches to stroke softly at her ruined cheek. “That is the way of the Sith. You bend the knee to power.”  
  


“And the rebels?” she asks weakly.  
  


“They are a way to get to Vader. Vader needs to die.” Maul has true menace in his voice. It sends a shiver down her spine. 

He notices. It prompts him to pull her closer. “Never fear, never fear. You will be safe.”

“So you have decided to betray them?” she demands. “You will, won’t you?” Rhea raises a dismayed hand to her mouth. “Yes, you will . . . I know you will.”

“If the opportunity presents itself,” Maul concedes, “yes. But I will never betray you, little one. You can trust in me.”

He leans to kiss her forehead. But Rhea looks away. She can’t claim to be disillusioned or disappointed, for she has known this was a possibility. Still, she mutters, “You know I don’t want this.”  
  


He sighs heavily. “I know. I can’t give you what you want. In this, and in other things . . . you must settle for me . . . “  
  


And there he goes again, alluding to his disability. What they can and can’t do in the bedroom bothers Maul far more than it bothers her. “You know I don’t care about that. But I do care about the Emperor,” she complains stubbornly. “I don’t want you to go back to him—Maul, I worry—"  
  


“Who’s alive who can beat him?” he challenges angrily. “Yoda failed! Neither Vader nor I can do it alone. And Kenobi has gone missing for a decade.”

“Not even Plagueis?” she suggests hopefully. 

“I don’t see him trying, do you? He might not die from the rematch, but he could end up with even worse damage.”

“You’re saying the Emperor is unbeatable?”  
  


Maul frowns before he answers. This is clearly an issue he’s thought a lot about. “My Master’s biggest opponent is himself. Darth Sidious is his own worst enemy and if Plagueis’ theories of balance are to be believed, then my Master could be his own undoing.”  
  


“I don’t understand.”   
  


“Overconfidence is Father’s weakness,” Maul confides. “He will aim too high and push too hard. And then, perhaps he will fail. Or if Plagueis is right, then the Force will punish him for his hubris.”

Rhea nods blankly like she always does when Maul speaks of the Force. She gets lost in the ideological conflicts between the demigod Sith and Jedi. It’s all a mix of philosophy and personal animosity, as far as she can tell. 

Maul continues: “That is Plagueis’ strategy. That old zombie Muun holds the trump card with his immortality. It gives him the ultimate advantage of time. So you see—he doesn’t need to win, he only needs to wait.”  
  


“Then why is he funding the rebels and recruiting you?” What’s the point of what Plagueis is doing?  
  


“I think he wants to see if his theories are right. If whether given an alternative, the Force will choose to dump Father in favor of him.”  
  


“I see . . .” Not really. But she’s trying to understand. The concept of space wizards and witches competing with one another using improbable powers like immortality is kind of daunting. It might be laughable were it all not so real and the stakes not so high. She wonders aloud now, “But why did the Force dump Darth Plagueis in the first place? Did he go too far as well?” She’s wondering how Plagueis’ balance ideas relate to his own experience.   
  


“That is a very good question.”  
  


Troubled Rhea frowns. “I don’t like the idea of the Force being a wrathful god.”

“It’s not. The Sith teach that there is no cosmic fairness. It’s the Jedi who believe that the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.”  
  


“Not Darth Plagueis,” she points out. “He changed his tune.” She looks to Maul now. “What would the witches say?”

He thinks a long moment. When he speaks, his answer is thoughtful. Actually, Maul is always thoughtful. He’s far from the brute his job title suggests. He’s a soft spoken, educated, reasoning, and very strategic man. Violence is but one of his tactics and he employs it far less than most realize. It’s just that when Maul gets violent, it’s always vicious and inescapable. That leaves a lasting impression that tends to overshadow other aspects of the man.

Maul releases her now as he rolls on his back in bed. “Mother Talzin would say that the Force gives us free will to make our own choices. That the Force lets us fail. It lets unfairness persist and injustice happen. But it also allows for excellence and success. The witches didn’t see a grand plan we are to live out on behalf of a controlling god. They saw a mostly indifferent universe that self regulates without interference from the Force for the most part.”  
  


“Mother was highly skeptical of the motives of the Jedi who claimed god the Force was on their side, justifying their actions. She also looked askance at the Sith’s plans for domination. Mother would rebuke us for trying to be like the Force rather than listening to the Force.” 

“She sounds a little like Plagueis,” Rhea suggests softly.   
  


“Maybe,” Maul allows. He smirks. “Weirdly, I think they would have liked each other. Once they stopped trying to impress each other . . . and probably trying to kill each other.”

“Would she like me?” Rhea wonders aloud about his fearsome mother.

“She might.” Maul flashes a rare smile as he considers the two women in his life. “Mother would immediately bully you. You would probably take it and then you would both be happy,” he decides. “Mother because she had found another daughter to hover over and you because you had found a parent figure. Mother was overbearing but she could be disarmingly kind at times,” he reminisces. “She might have taken pity on you, little one, had she found you alone during the war. Mother would have taken you home to take care of you along with the rest of her flock.”

“Like you did?” Rhea smiles at the memory. She never anticipated that she would end up working at the compound, let alone be helping Crimson Dawn’s boss plot an insurrection. And never in her wildest dreams would she end up as Maul’s lover, lolling in bed with pillow talk of the Force like now. 

“I guess that was my mother in me showing that day. There are times when I think I am more Nightbrother than Sith.”

Rhea agrees. And it worries her. For this loyal, tribal Nightbrother is far too needy for the Sith father who rejected him. There are many risks in the dangerous web of treason, deceit, and revenge they weave, but the biggest risk might be that Maul succeeds in getting what he wants—killing Vader and maybe even killing Kenobi—only to fall short again in Sheev Palpatine’s eyes. Then, he will lose and the galaxy will lose as well.

But the future is always in motion, or so Maul has told her. And so, like she has so many times since the war, Rhea will trust that it will all turn out alright in the end. She will hope. She snuggles up to Maul and he trails a slow hand down her lekku. Is he in her thoughts? He must be. For he leans in for a kiss, whispering, “So Light . . .”


	16. chapter 16

It’s late and he’s in bed with Rhea. She’s drowsy but he’s not quite ready for sleep. So he keeps talking. “I’ll be gone tomorrow night.”

“I know, the big Hutt trip,” she mumbles into his chest. She lifts her head to smile up at him. “I miss you already.”

Force, she’s adorable like that with big, soft, sleepy eyes. “Come with me,” he decides spur of the moment. “I’m taking some men. You can serve on the ship.” That’s the pretext he often uses for Rhea to tag along.

“Do I have to get off the ship?” she asks as she settles back down on his chest.

“What are you worried about?”

“The Hutts. I don’t like the Hutts. They were awful when they were here last.”

Yes, he recalls the confrontation he interrupted. “Worried about that Chagrian?“

“Yes. Or others like him. It seems stupid for a Twi’lek girl to walk into a Hutt palace. Like I’m just asking for trouble.”

“I’ll protect you,” he promises as he absently strokes her lekku.

“How about I stay in the ship?” she grumbles before she yawns again. “I don’t want to end up chained to a Hutt.”

“It will be fine. Come with me,” he urges. “Let me show you off.”

“The only way I’m going to a Hutt palace is if I’m chained to you,” Rhea responds as she kisses his chest. She sighs into his skin, murmuring a childlike, “Night-night,” as she teeters on the edge of sleep. She is warm and soft and very relaxed. It relaxes him too. She relaxes him.

It’s part of why he is loath to leave her behind if only for a day. So, possessive Sith that he is, he digs in. “You’re coming,” Maul pulls rank. “That’s an order.”

Her reply is slurred with sleep. “Only if . . . I’m chained to you . . .”

Luckily, he can arrange that.

The next morning, he has a full schedule of work before he boards his cruiser bound for the Hutt meeting. There are not enough hours in the day lately between his full-time job running Crimson Dawn and his full-time job plotting treason. Plus, he wants time to devote to Rhea. Still, he’s happier than he has been in a long, long time. It’s partly this scheme with Plagueis and the rebels and partly his Twi’lek housemaid lover. 

All the possibilities in motion have him excited. He’s not fretting over the lack of clarity for the future so much as he is welcoming the chance to shake things up. Because there comes a time in life when it feels like alternatives are gone. Like things are settled and done, whether you like it or not. You get on one path and it forecloses other options. And even though things might be okay or even good, there is a sameness to it all. It makes him feel old. Like his life is on the downslope and all the big moments and marquee achievements are over. But now things are in play in a big way at long last. That energizes him. It invigorates him. It captures his imagination. He is jolted out of his rut and open to more change to come. The lords of the Sith are men of action, and finally it feels like he is plotting things that matter. Not just more ways to undercut the competition so he can sell more spice and earn credits he rarely spends.

But this morning doesn’t go as expected. A confrontation with a price gouging contraband hyperfuel supplier ends in significant bloodshed. It’s unnecessary, but it feels good. As he stalks away from the messy aftermath, he receives notice of a ship in orbit requesting permission to land. It’s old Plagueis and he just happens to be in the neighborhood. Riiiiight. Despite the blatant pretext, Maul grants the request and heads out to meet him in person.

Darth Plagueis the Wise makes his way down his ship’s boarding ramp in a slow-moving sweep of black fabric. How this disfigured old gargoyle manages to look more statesmanlike than monstrous is a mystery Maul would like to solve. For the senior Sith simply oozes gravitas. It makes Maul feel a bit like a poseur by comparison, even though he has all the requisite Sith credentials. 

“Come to borrow a cup of sugar?” Maul calls up the ramp.

“Anxious to see me again?” his guest retorts. “Or just being your usual indifferent host self? I guess I should count myself lucky you didn’t storm my ship again.”

“They’re cleaning up inside. I just killed three guys in my office.”

“Feel better now?”

Yes, he does. But he’s not letting on how much he needed that violence. He refuses to show weakness—even Dark weakness—before this man. So, he postures with what he hopes is an icy glare.

It has no effect on the Muun. “Lord Maul, the more you dabble with the Light, the stronger your Dark side will assert itself. The balance that eludes the universe also tends to elude the self. So you must cultivate it,” the Muun admonishes. “For all Force users are a microcosm of that same epic passion play. It’s why the strongest of Jedi were tempted to Darkness.”

Whatever. Maul doesn't want to hear another rambling rant on the metaphysics of the Force. This old geezer can go on and on.

Plagueis reaches the bottom of the ramp now. Unexpectedly, he smiles. “This is very good,” he commends. “This is a sign of maturity. Your power keeps growing. There are complexities to being a powerful Sith. You will be tempted by the Light Side, and then Darkness will arise again. The cycle repeats itself. Darkness rises and Light to meet it. Learn to manage it wisely.”

Maul dutifully nods and repeats the advice Father long ago drummed into his head, “Control your urges.”

“Oh no, my boy. Quite the contrary, in fact.” Plagueis, the somewhat reformed sinner Sith, waves a spindly finger before his nose. “Give in to the temptation, be it Light or Dark. Let the Force guide your impulses. Be an instrument of its will.”

It’s something Mother might have taught. But whatever. He’s not Plagueis’ Apprentice. 

“How are my rebel friends?” Maul changes the topic. He knows that his secret co-conspirator has just come from meeting with Mothma and Organa.

Plagueis looks amused as he replies. “I hear you’re basically a Jedi now. A new hope for the cause of justice and freedom.” The towering Muun chuckles at his own sarcasm. “Your skills at deception must be stronger than I thought.”

  
  
“I like to be underestimated.”

  
  
“Trust me, it happens rarely,” Plagueis drawls dryly. 

  
  
He bristles. “Get to the point.”

  
  
“Very well,” the senior Sith plays along. “What have you bought with my credits? I hear you’re spending them fast enough.”

  
  
“Armies don’t come cheap.” And yikes—that came out sounding defensive. It’s a definite power bleed to be on the defensive.

  
  
His guest grunts. “I’m not asking for an accounting. I want details. Outline your strategy,” the Sith Master invites. “I came to plot, not to conduct an audit. Indulge a bored old man who hasn’t planned a war in decades. I’m missing all the fun in this financier guise. All I do is pay the bills,” he sighs. And wait—is Darth Plagueis the Wise pouting? Because he looks like he’s pouting. 

  
  
Mollified, Maul starts to expand on his approach. Matching his steps to Plagueis’ slow plod, together they pace the perimeter of the compound landing platform as Maul speaks. Unlike Father, Plagueis listens in full without interruption. Only once Maul has talked at great length does Plagueis begin asking questions. He has a lot of questions.

  
  
They are asked with keen interest and an even tone. All the Muun’s smirking sarcasm is gone. So too the obnoxious pontificating about balancing the Force. This is unexpectedly a discussion of equals and not a condescending cross examination. Darth Plagueis turns out to be rather shockingly collaborative. It’s nothing like how Maul remembers plotting with Father. Darth Sidious was not a man to delegate to his young Apprentice. He preferred to micromanage. And when young Maul came back to report on progress, Lord Sidious spent most of the time telling him all the ways he could have done better. It was a didactic approach, to be sure. But discouraging at times. 

  
  
Plagueis has recommendations as well, but no real criticism. The Muun endorses his overall approach and commends the emphasis on stealth. “More light fighters,” he recommends. “See if you can get your hands on some Imperial model ships as well. Items we can use to masquerade as Sheev’s forces.”

  
Maul agrees. 

  
  
“Spend what you need to spend,” the mastermind of the Clone Wars instructs. “Don’t be cheap. That Mothma can be cheap. She’s already complaining about the credits and they’re not even hers.”

  
  
“That’s because she wants to use the war as leverage to negotiate peace.”

  
  
“That will never happen. Sheev will never compromise. Besides, peace is a lie,” the zombie Muun harrumphs the Dark Side dogma that is the first lesson of being a Sith.

  
“Peace is a lie,” Darth Maul affirms immediately. He feels he needs to double down on his Sith cred after that earlier Jedi remark.

  
  
Plagueis now stops his plodding. “This war could end up being even more asymmetrical than we expect. My Apprentice has a new weapon under construction.”

  
  
Maul shrugs off the point. “Father has always loved technology. Bigger, better, faster . . . that’s how he thinks. Have you seen the ridiculous super star destroyer he gave Vader?” Maul scowls with no small amount of jealousy at this showy token of esteem. He complains, “It makes the run-of-the-mill capital ship look like a landspeeder by comparison.”

  
  
Plagueis sniffs. “Sheev always did try too hard. But I’m not talking about a ship. I’m talking about the space station he has under development.”

  
  
“What’s so special about a space station?”

  
  
“This one has a hyperdrive and a kyber crystal laser that can destroy a planet.”

  
  
That gets Maul’s attention. “Destroy an entire planet?”

  
  
“Yes, marvelous, no? The technology is impressive even if the act itself will be foolish.”

  
  
This all vaguely rings a bell. Maul casts his mind back decades. “This is an old idea. One he discarded long ago for being unfeasible . . . I think . . .”

  
  
“This was my idea,” Plagueis corrects him. “One of several options for how to kick off the Clone Wars with a glaring war crime that would demand immediate retribution and instantly escalate things. Fortunately, the technology was too difficult back then. But not any longer apparently.”

  
  
“It really destroys an entire planet?”

  
  
“Supposedly.”

  
  
Maul disapproves and he says so. “That’s overkill.” His mother and the Nightsisters would be aghast.

  
  
The Muun concurs. “I’m glad we agree. That sort of weapon is too Dark. It will provoke the Force to strike back. I see that now . . . I didn’t before when I conceived of the concept.”

  
  
Maul is skeptical. “How could you possibly get enough kyber crystals to power a laser that big?”

  
  
“Vader looted Jedha as well as every Jedi Temple he could find.”

  
  
“Have you told the rebels about this?”

  
  
“Not yet. The issue isn’t ripe.”

  
  
Not ripe? If what Plagueis says is true, this killer space station is a game changer. “Now is the time to destroy that weapon before it becomes operational,” he judges.

  
  
The Muun feels no such urgency. “The completion date is five years away at the earliest. We have time.”

  
  
Maul is alert to the stalling at work. He calls Plagueis on it. Fixing the mangled Muun with a hard look, he accuses, “Or, you could simply wait until he builds it and uses it. Then you can gauge the consequences to test your theories.”

  
  
A slow, sly smile creeps across the elder Sith’s face. “You catch on fast, Lord Maul.” Plagueis shrugs with indifference. “We win either way. We destroy the weapon or we watch Sheev destroy himself with the weapon.”

“It’s star systems that will be destroyed, not Father and Vader.”

  
  
Plagueis disagrees. “When Sheev overreaches, the Force will turn on him. Mark my words, this space station could be his undoing. Darkness has its place, but it will never snuff out the Light. If it gets too powerful, or the Light too weak, the Force will intervene. The Force defaults to balance. Lord Maul,” he lectures sternly, “you may only push so far, so long in one direction, before the Force pushes back. And then, you will lose its favor. It will choose another champion.”

  
  
Maul’s eyes narrow. “You sound like a man who speaks from experience.”

  
  
“I do. The Force has humbled me.”

  
  
Now is his opening to ask the question Rhea once posed. Maul crosses his arms and demands, “What did you do to anger the Force? What prompted it to strike back at you and reward Father instead?”

  
  
“I overreached.”

  
  
Obviously. “How?”

  
  
“I tried to be the Force.”

  
  
“How?”

  
  
The Muun answers slowly. “I tried to wield the power of a god. To create life by manipulating midichlorians. It was a grand experiment with Dark power, trying to push its limits. I pushed too hard. I went too far . . . and the Force pushed back.” 

  
Plagueis frowns. This enlightened Sith Master, who preaches a muddled ideal of Dark Side ascendancy mixed with some bizarre romantic notion of moderation, now sincerely laments. “The Force grants me immortality, but it punishes me to sit on the sidelines to watch all I planned unfold under my Apprentice’s name. I learned the lesson of balance the hard way. But I learned it,” he insists, “whereas Sheev did not.”

  
“What life were you creating?” Maul wonders. Because Dark alchemy is nothing new. Sith lords have been conjuring monsters and apparitions for eons. His own mother was expert at that sort of thing. Projections and Force mirages were a hallmark of Mother Talzin.

Plagueis answers, “A child.”

“Get one the old-fashioned way,” Maul suggests. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Plagueis counters. 

Sex is a diversion Maul can no longer indulge in. Clearly, he appreciates it far more than Plagueis because the Muun smirks as he announces, “Power trumps sex any day.”

He says nothing. This is a sore point. Sith that he is, he would gladly trade a little power to be a full man again.

The Muun now glances over to where Crimson Dawn lackeys are fueling and provisioning his big cruiser. “Going somewhere?” he inquires. 

“I’m leaving soon to visit a Hutt.”

“Which one?”

“Marlo.”

“Is he still around? He’s the smart one.” Old Plagueis gives him a rather pained look now as he chides, “Try not to threaten to kill every Hutt this time.” When Maul looks up sharply, the Muun waves an impatient hand, “Yes, yes, I know all about that ridiculous ultimatum years back. Keep your focus on our real enemy Darth Sidious. Don’t get distracted.”

He grumbles, “I have a business to run.” And he doesn’t need Plagueis to tell him who his enemies are. Because most days, it feels like everyone but Rhea is his enemy. Including this pontificating Muun.

And here he goes again with the lecturing: “Your business is power, Darth Maul. You are a prince of Darkness, not of a prince of spice. You are Sith.”

Glancing away in annoyance, Maul’s eyes settle on the field of battle debris adjacent to the landing pad. It reminds him of Rhea’s comments about how much he is still a Nightbrother. What does that mean anymore? Basically nothing. The only creeds left are Jedi and Sith. Well, maybe just Sith. It’s the Dark Side versus the Dark Side now. The old school Rule of Two Sith of Darth Sidious versus Darth Plagueis’ Dark-Side-lite concept. Where he himself fits in that mix is still impossible to tell.

When Plagueis departs, Maul corrals his five lieutenants who handle the gang’s dealings with the Hutts and cajoles Rhea to climb onboard his cruiser as well. Then, he gives the order for the pilot to take off for Nal Hutta. It’s a six-hour flight, so they land in the early evening. That is intentionally timed since that’s when a Hutt begins his workday.

When they touch down, everyone takes their last gasp of clean, filtered air aboard the ship. The Hutt homeworld Nal Hutta is very polluted. So much so that the rain is reportedly greasy. But Maul has never stayed long enough to find out firsthand. The last time he was here he made a very hasty exit. Since then, the Hutts have preferred to come to Crimson Dawn.

“The Coruscant Underworld smells better than this place,” Uli mutters as they troop down the cruiser’s ramp.

“Stay sharp,” Maul tells his longest serving lieutenant under his breath. “You remember what happened last time we were here.”

Rhea is the final passenger down the ramp, but she’s just in time to hear that instruction. “What? What happened last time?”

He gives Uli a quelling look and the man takes the hint. “That was a long time ago. We’ve been at peace with the Hutts for years now.”

“What happened last time, Sir?” Rhea persists.

Uli explains some more. “It’s ancient history. And besides, it wasn’t this Hutt. It was the Hutt Council.”

Anxious to change the topic away from one of his more brash exploits, Maul reaches into a pocket and produces a tether chain. One end is a collar, and the other end is a long cylindrical handle. He improvised this apparatus late last night as Rhea slept using a rudimentary lightsaber he took off a captured Padawan years ago and a chain from his compound holding cell.

“What’s that?” Rhea’s eyes narrow.

“You said the only way you would come inside is on a chain attached to me,” Maul reminds her.

She gulps. “You’re serious . . .”

“Yes. Come here, little Rhea.”

Around them, his lieutenants watch with interest. She knows not to contradict him in this setting. But still, Rhea warbles, “Sir, I take it back.”

“Too late.”

“But S-Sir—"

When she hesitates again, he steps forward. “Hold still.” He clamps the metal collar about her neck. Leaning in close to her right ear, he confides loud enough for several of his men to hear, “The other end is a lightsaber.” Rhea’s slave girl guise is how he plans to smuggle a weapon into the Hutt palace.

It’s a bold scheme, but she’s unimpressed by his daring. She’s too concerned about the collar. Rhea’s eyes are wide as she tugs at the metal. “How does this come off?”

“With the Force. The Hutts will love it,” he declares to the prevailing nods and grins of his men. No doubt, they have all been wondering what a housemaid is doing in attendance for this meeting. Now, they know she is a ruse.

“Here.” He tosses the saber end of the tether chain to Uli. “Keep her in line,” he smirks. “I advise a short leash.”

“Oh, no!” Rhea musters the courage to assert herself again. “Sir, the deal was I am chained to you. You! Not to him,” she jabs a dismissive thumb at Uli.

His ranking lieutenant feigns offense at this slight to the snickers of the others.

“Very well.” With a show of amused magnanimity, Maul takes back the tether. “You will be my slave girl tonight.” That comment earns Maul a suggestive wolf whistle from one of his more obnoxious underlings. He ignores it. But Rhea rather convincingly turns purple beneath her green skin.

The Hutt men who many stand meters away are catching most—but not all—of this exchange, he knows.

“Come,” he rattles the chain and tugs Rhea forward to meet the Hutt guards. They are scanned and frisked for weapons, as expected. After what happened last time he was on Nal Hutta, Maul knows that his reputation precedes him. But per design, the lightsaber hidden in the slave tether goes undetected when Maul simply hands it to a Hutt guard while he is searched. Everyone knows the metal from the chain and handle will falsely set off the scanner. The oblivious guard hands it back and they are marched into Marlo the Hutt’s headquarters.

“Sir, this is ridiculous.” Rhea gives him a covert glare.

He is unrepentant. “I think I like it. I feel like a Hutt already,” he quips for the benefit of his listening men who walk surrounding them.

“Sir, he’s going to know that you’re making fun of him,” one lieutenant speaks up with worry.

“No, he won’t,” Maul disagrees. “His ego won’t allow it. He’ll think he set an example for me to follow.”

Uli agrees. He commends Rhea, “You're a good sport about this.”

“Everyone, keep your eyes open,” Maul reiterates his earlier warning. “The Hutts are gross but they’re not stupid.”

Rhea is truly spooked now. Uli sees it and tries to reassure her. “Don’t worry. My wife will kill me if we don’t get you home safe.”

That prompts him to snark, “Uli here is more scared of his own wife than he is of any Hutt.”

His oldest lieutenant shrugs at this good-natured ribbing. “You will be too, boss, if you ever see Marisol angry.”

“Perhaps we should take Marisol as our slave girl the next time we visit,” Maul muses.

“I’d feel better if we had weapons,” Uli plays to their audience of listening guards.

“I am armed with the Force,” Maul replies just to remind everyone of who they’re dealing with.

“What good is that? Can you choke a whole roomful of guys?” Rhea hisses. She might not know it, but her legitimate fear is playing to their audience as well. “Sir, what if this is an ambush?” she asks in a too loud whisper.

It’s the perfect setup for him to brag, “I once fought my way off a Republic cruiser without a weapon. I was armed only the Force.”

“Really?” someone asks.

“Really. It was fun . . . once I lived.”

Uli tries to calm the increasingly alarmed Rhea. He gives her some practical advice, “If it’s a melee, grab for a gun from a dead man and start shooting.”

“No, don’t,” Maul immediately countermands him. “I’ve seen her shoot. She’ll probably shoot you.”

“Good point. Better not. Just duck for cover and leave the shooting to us.”

“This is not inspiring confidence,” Rhea groans.

“Uli, when was the last time we were in a firefight?” Maul wonders aloud.

“It’s been two years now. Ord Mantel, I think? It was those local cops looking to make a name for themselves by taking on Crimson Dawn.”

“Remind me how many we lost?”

“None.”

“And how many did the enemy lose?”

“All.”

He turns to Rhea. “Feel better now?”

“No! Not at all, Sir.” She reaches up to tug at the offending collar again.

He can’t repress a grin now. This is too much fun. He looks Rhea over in her neat and dignified housemaid dress modeled after the staff uniform at the Imperial palace. “You’re sort of overdressed for my dancing girl. Can you even dance?”

“No, Sir.”

“Pity.” He shakes his head in mock reproof. “Can’t shoot. Can’t dance. What can you do?”

Rhea purses her lips as she fumes. She really is being a good sport about this. “Mostly, I clean, Sir.” In between meetings to plot treason.

“Is this the Hutt who keeps a band in his audience chamber?” one of the younger guys pipes up to ask.

“They all do that now,” Uli answers with the knowledge of a gang veteran. “These palaces are more like a party than a place of business.”

“I hate music. Especially loud music,” Maul harrumphs.

“Does that mean we should kill the band first?” Uli jokes.

“No one is killing anyone!” Rhea snaps.

“You’re no fun,” Maul retorts. “And, no. Don’t kill the band. We’ll feed the band to the rancor.”

“There’s a rancor??” Rhea yelps.

“There should be unless Marlo killed it or sold it.”

Uli supplies the details. “The boss gave him a rancor years ago as a peace offering. The Hutts love gifts.”

“Indeed, they think of them as tribute,” Maul confirms.

“I don’t like rancors,” Rhea moans.

“The beasts are indigenous to Dathomir. They are something of a collector’s item as an exotic pet. It was a win-win,” he recalls. “I got rid of a local pest who routinely ate my construction workers at the compound—"

“Ewww—“ Rhea recoils.

“And Marlo the Hutt got his present.”

“Always thinking strategically,” Uli commends.

Maul snorts. “Is there any other way to think?”

As they keep marching to their meeting past the watchful eyes of others, it’s clear that this Hutt’s pleasure palace sets the standard for all the rest in dissipation and debauchery. And also, Maul thinks as he steps over something that looks suspiciously like vomit, in general lack of cleanliness. But when the party never ends and the morning after bleeds fast into the next party, there is probably no time for anyone to tidy up.

Beside him, housemaid Rhea is equally disapproving. “This place is gross,” she whispers as she too steps carefully.

“If you think this is bad, wait until you meet our host,” he responds.

“I can see why they keep the lights down low,” she mutters back. “I’d hate to see this place better.”

Two more dimly lit corridors and a stifling elevator later, their party is met by their host’s Devaronian majordomo. This is the man who will escort them into Marlo the Hutt’s main audience chamber. “Ah, here we are,” Maul outwardly smirks but his senses are on high alert. He can feel his adrenaline kick in with anticipation of the confrontation to come. Will it just be words? Probably, but he isn’t sure.

He’s presenting himself today as a show of goodwill since the Hutts have been dropping hints and asking questions about his arms dealing activities. Rather than duck the issue, he intends to let the Hutt Clan raise the matter directly if they wish. Here in the audience chamber crowded with gang members, colorful hangers-on, bounty hunters, and opportunistic revelers, there will be many witnesses to repeat his remarks to the rest of the underworld. He might as well be issuing a press release for what he will say today. 

When they enter, their host is ensconced up on a levitating dais, as expected. Marlo the Hutt is a giant space slug, like all of his species. He’s as gross and fetid as the Nal Hutta world the Hutt Clan calls home and the equally squalid moon Nar Shaddaa that orbits it. But in all candor, what the Hutts lack in attractiveness, they make up for in craftiness. Their only alien counterpart in the galaxy is likely the uptight, very conservative Muun race who also display keen strategy and unbridled ambition. The difference is that the towering, slim humanoid Muuns apply their talents to legitimate business. For many centuries now, the Muun race has controlled high finance, including all the leading intragalactic investment and commercial banking houses. Whereas the Hutts have cornered the market on all forms of gratuitous vice from the sex trade, to porn, to slaves, to liquor, to spice and other narcotics. If it’s both unsavory and lucrative, the Hutts have a hand in it.

Marlo the Hutt in particular has been a leading voice on their Grand Hutt Council since before the Clone Wars. That remarkable tenure speaks volumes amid the notoriously backstabbing Hutt Clan. This Hutt is no buffoon like that idiot who calls Tattooine home. Right now, Marlo has a scanty clad blue Twi’lek slave girl chained to his wrist and he’s smoking some sort of pipe. He is the very the picture of the indolent, indulgent lifestyle the Hutts embody and peddle to the galaxy. But Maul is not fooled. This Hutt is a veteran in his industry and a keen businessman. Maul recognizes the licentious trappings for the posturing they are. No gangster perpetually high on spice lives to prosper the way Marlo the Hutt has.

As they file in, the music stops. “Our glorious host,” the majordomo performs a low bow to match his fawning words, “most excellent and mighty Hutt, the delegation from Crimson Dawn has arrived.”

All heads turn to look at them now.

“Maul,” their host croaks the name out in a deep, rumbly baritone.

He steps forward and inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Marlo.”

The Hutt now barks at a protocol droid to begin to translate his words. It’s an unnecessary accommodation, since Maul long ago decided he needed to understand Huttese in his line of work. He’s also certain that Marlo speaks Basic quite fluently. Nonetheless, this is how things are done on Nal Hutta. Chiefly, Maul suspects, for the benefit of the courtier onlookers.

“Have you come to threaten to kill us again?” the Hutt rumbles in his guttural language.

Maul is conciliatory, as planned. “Are we not old friends by now?”

“Men like us do not have friends,” the Hutt answers. Marlo’s huge eyes peer down at him, sizing him up. He must decide that’s enough of the preliminary banter, because he gets right to the point. “When is this war of yours starting?”

Beside him, Maul feels Rhea stiffen, but he replies easily. “There is no syndicate war.” Now war against the Empire . . . Well, that’s a different story. One he hopes they will not delve into before this many witnesses. So, he will assume they are talking about a gang war.

“Why are you buying an army?” the Hutt demands.

“I like to be prepared.”

“If not for a syndicate war, then for what?”

“For the next time the galaxy falls into full scale civil unrest. There is new fighting on several systems. And there are rumors of malcontents coalescing to form a true rebellion.”

This Hutt helped to head the Clan during the Clone Wars. Marlo knows all about what war does to his syndicate. His host frowns openly. “Civil wars are bad for business.”

“Agreed.”

“But you think war is coming again?”

“I want to be prepared in case it does occur.”

“Or you can take steps to prevent it. Inform the Empire of whatever you are seeing that’s got you nervous. That’s what we do. Whenever I suspect there is treason afoot, I promptly inform the authorities.” The old Hutt is the picture of sanctimony.

“Good idea,” Maul allows offhand. He’s playing it cool.

“I have a direct line to Vader, you know . . .” the Hutt low key threatens.

Maul smirks and chides, “You ought to keep better company.”

“One could say the same for you as well. Yes . . . I like to be a good citizen,” the Hutt muses, “to do my part to expose those who endanger the peace.” The big slug pauses for the protocol droid to translate before he adds, “The Clan has a lot riding on the status quo.”

“As does Crimson Dawn,” Maul reminds him.

“You never know when a fool with the Force and a few followers will try to take over the galaxy. That sort of thing needs to be nipped in the bud.”

“Dooku is long dead.”

“Who said I was speaking of Count Dooku?“

“I’m going to presume you’re speaking of Dooku.”

“Presume what you wish,” the Hutt rumbles down from in high.

Maul crosses his arms now. “You flatter me,” he decides as he leisurely approaches the dais, dragging hapless Rhea along behind him. “This is why I like you. You are my favorite Hutt.”

Marlo makes a noise halfway between a snort and a belch. “Don’t try to be charming, Maul. It makes us all cringe for you. Just be yourself. Your avarice infused, power hungry, and violent best self.”

Maul smiles at these words. “Again, you flatter me,” he responds. “For a moment there, I thought you were accusing me of being a rebel. How offended I might be if you deemed me to be the good guy. That sort of thing is bad for my reputation.”

“The rebels aren’t the good guys. They just think they’re the good guys.” The ugly slug appraises him carefully once again. “Maul, you were a third faction during the last war. You were after territory more keenly than business back then.”

“I was new to the scene,” Maul explains blithely. “In those days, my allies cared about territory. But Death Watch has gone the way of the Republic now.”

“As has your Shadow Collective.”

Not entirely. But Maul lets the comment slide. “Times change. I changed.” And there is a lie if there ever was one.

Marlo calls him on it. “You were nakedly ambitious then, and you are now. What is it you want, Maul?”

Now there’s a question. A home question. But he deflects it. “Is this a philosophical discussion?”

“No. Tell me what you want. What you want so badly that you are building an army to get it.”

He tells the Hutt what he wants to hear: “I want our mutually beneficial friendship to continue and for both our enterprises to prosper. And I will strike at any fool who seeks to undermine those goals.”

The Hutt grunts. He’s satisfied with that answer even if he doesn’t believe it. He shifts topics now. “Is she a gift for me?” His host gestures to Rhea.

“No. She’s with me.”

“Pity. I have many girls, but none that look like that one. Did you do that to her face?”

“She came that way.”

“I hope you got a discount. Are you sure she’s not a gift for me?”

“I’m sure.” The Hutt wants tribute. Well, he’s not getting Rhea. “In lieu of this girl, I will let you keep those two spice shipments of ours you rustled out of Mon Gazza last week. Consider them a gift. A one-time gift. Know that Crimson Dawn will retaliate for any further aggression,” he growls his threat.

His host disavows knowledge, as expected. “I have no idea what you refer to.”

“I thought not.”

Marlo moves on immediately from that particular topic. "Well then, the only gift today will be from me. Bring the Jedi," the Hutt bellows.

His lackeys jump to comply. While they wait, their host explains, “She was found today as a stowaway two steps ahead of an Inquisitor. I was going to give her to Vader, but then I knew you were coming and I recalled that you have your own private purge underway.”

“I hate the Jedi,” Maul snarls, mostly to publicly refute those earlier insinuations about treason. 

“You’ll like this one,” Marlo leers man-to-man. “She’s young and pretty.”

The Hutt guards now arrive with what looks to be a fully human young woman in their midst. Is she pretty? It’s difficult to tell. The handcuffed Jedi is bedraggled with a black eye and a split lip. She put up a fight apparently.

“She’s all yours, Maul.” The guards push the captive forward. “What do you do with them?” curious Marlo asks as he watches Uli intercept the woman.

“I fight them,” Maul answers. “Fighting Jedi keeps me in top form. Where's her sword?”

“In my collection.”

“I want the sword. She's no good to me without a sword.”

“I like the sword where it is,” the big slug counters.

“Vader will want her sword.”

“Are you giving her to Vader?”

“I might when I'm done with her. Or maybe, I'll make her a marquee event at Canto Bight. Fight night with a Jedi. We can make it a cage match with a rathtar. People would pay good credits to see that.”

“You're such a thug, Maul. You give even our business a bad name,” the gangster on the dais decides.

“I’ll save you ringside seats,” Maul promises with a sneer. “You can watch her die.”

“As if I would ever appear in one of your Pike-owned casinos.” The huffing Hutt now grumbles to an underling, “Get the sword. Give him the sword.”

That concession prompts him to say thank you. “She is a rare, fine gift, Marlo. You have my gratitude and my continued friendship.”

“I would appreciate a head’s up next time you decide to take over Mandalore or whatever you're up to with your weapons stockpile,” the senior Hutt replies. He says it casually, but his serious intent is clear. “I would consider it a personal favor and a professional courtesy.”

“From one thug to another?” he jeers.

The Hutt laughs with a deep ‘ho-ho-ho’ sound. “Exactly.”

And that exchange ends the command performance on an up note. Today has been mostly for show. The real details of Crimson Dawn’s day-to-day dealings with the Hutts are negotiated in private by Uli and others without the current cadre of witnesses. But the Hutt Clan practically summoned him here and he had to show up or risk looking fearful. Maul is well aware that he has a reputation to uphold. That reputation has its uses, and so the swaggering banter from this orchestrated scene is necessary from time to time.

He and his retinue now withdraw with the Jedi woman in tow. The Hutt guards escort them back through the palace and out to the ship.

“Well, that was boring,” tough guy Uli jokes along the way. “No fight. Not even an attempted fight. And now, we’re besties with the Hutt Clan.”

“We’re not out yet,” Maul reminds him.

“Walk faster,” Rhea hisses under her breath.

“Yes, ma’am. Double time, men,” Uli advises with a chuckle. “You heard the lady.”

“It’s fine,” Maul tells Rhea. “It will be fine.” He knows she’s worried more about what the Hutt said than what the Hutt’s men might do.

Rhea shoots him a curious and dubious look, but says nothing before the others.

They emerge from the Hutt palace unscathed. As soon as they are onboard his cruiser, he starts issuing orders. “Double check the ship for a tracker. Make sure we're clean. Then get us in orbit. Shields at full power.”

“Yes, Sir.”

His lieutenants depart to fulfill the orders and he turns his attention for the first time to the Jedi woman he has just been gifted.

“Who are you?” she demands.

He ignores the question. Instead, he outstretches a gloved hand and leaps into her mind. Predictably, the woman gasps and cries out. “Don’t fight me,” he advises as he begins to search her memories.

“Maul, you’re hurting her!” Rhea reacts to the woman’s instant expression of pain.

“I’m not doing anything Vader won’t do.” Again, he tells the captive, “Don’t fight me.”

But the Jedi does fight him. He knew she would. So, remembering that he’s still holding Rhea’s chain with the concealed lightsaber, he yanks it from its hiding place. The weapon lights brilliant blue in his grip and he holds the tip to the Jedi’s throat. “Don’t fight me.”

This time, the Jedi takes the advice.

“Very good. Show me Kenobi. Do you have the holochron with his message? Do you know him? Do you know where he hides?” Maul races through this young woman’s memories looking for clues to the whereabouts of his nemesis. He finds none. This half trained Padawan is like most of the rest. She’s still committed to her creed and living life on the run. A martyr in the making, he decides. Another fool for Vader to slaughter.

Well, not on his watch. He’s going to use this Jedi woman for his own aims. Deactivating the sword, he retreats from her mind. The Jedi girl falls to her knees, reaching her cuffed hands up to her throbbing head. A trickle of blood leaks out from one nostril.

Rhea is alarmed. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

That’s when Uli walks up to report. Maul sends him to the cockpit. “Tell the pilot to set course for Alderaan. Take the fastest route.”

“Alderaan?” Rhea reacts.

“Alderaan?” the Jedi woman on the ground reacts too.

Maul nods. “I'm not taking you to Vader. I'm taking you to freedom.”

The blinking, confused woman practically chokes, “R-Really?”

Beside him, Rhea beams.

“I have no issue with you,” Maul explains as he waves a hand at the Jedi’s handcuffs. They open to clatter to the floor. Next, he waves a hand at the metal slave collar that encircles Rhea’s neck. The restraint also falls away with the help of the Force.

“Thanks,” Rhea murmurs, rubbing her throat.

“You were a good sport,” he approves with the suggestion of a smile tugging at his lips.

He gathers up the collar and tether chain, stashing the concealed lightsaber back within the dummy handle. He places them in his pocket and retrieves the Jedi woman’s own weapon. Much to her surprise, he shoves the sword in her face. “Here. Try not to get caught again.”

“Who are you?” the astounded Jedi on the floor wonders as she clutches her saber tightly.

He ignores the question and issues more orders. “Rhea, take her back to your quarters. Get her a shower and some food. See if you can clean her clothes and make her presentable to the Senator. Someone will bring you some bacta patches for her. That should do for now. I’m sure they can find her a medic droid on Alderaan.”

“Who are you?” the Jedi woman demands again as she climbs to her feet. “Who are you and what did you just do to me?”

This time he answers. “My name is Maul. I read your mind with the Force. It would not have hurt if you didn’t fight me. Next time, listen the first time, Jedi.”

The fugitive looks at him blankly. She has no idea who he is. “Why are you doing this?” she whispers.

Why indeed? He gives an answer that will register as truth to a Force user: “I hate Darth Vader and I’m going to kill him. You are the enemy of my enemy, and that makes us something like friends . . . for now.”

“Wait—you’re Jedi? Or were Jedi?” the woman’s eyes light up.

“No,” he quells that hope fast.

“But you know the Force—“

He turns back to Rhea. She is keeping quiet even though he knows she is anxious to debrief in the aftermath of the Hutt’s comments. “When you’re done with her, find me in my office. You’re going to make the call to Senator Organa. He cannot be seen taking calls from me.”

“Who are you if you’re not Jedi?” The wary fugitive is becoming exasperated at his stonewalling. Her indignant expression is very Jedi-like, Maul thinks sourly. These Light Side types are insufferable with their arrogant belief that they alone know the Force.

He cannot reveal that he’s a Sith Lord, of course, though that would be fun. So he tells another half-truth that will not betray him in the Force. “I’m a Nightbrother. Son of a witch and the heir to a tradition far older than the Jedi.”

The woman squints at him. Again, she does not comprehend. “What does that mean exactly?”

Rhea answers this time. “He’s the good guy. And he’s a survivor like you.” She inserts herself between them now and lays a comforting hand on the Jedi woman’s arm that clutches her sword. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up. You’ve had a hard day.”

It’s Rhea being Rhea, he thinks as he watches the pair leave. She’s doing his aims, but as gently as possible, as non-threatening as always.

He calls after her, “Don’t take too long. We need to call your Senator friend to make a plan.”

“Yes, Sir,” Rhea responds. She glances back over her shoulder and gives him a small smile. As he smiles back, the Jedi woman turns as well. She might have caught him, but he can’t be sure.


	17. chapter 17

As they walk away, the Jedi girl immediately starts peppering Rhea with questions. Her tone connotes no gratitude for her rescue or for Maul’s instructions for good treatment. If anything, she’s more wary now than before. But Maul’s mind interrogation did not help matters.

She demands, “Who are you people really?”

“We are Crimson Dawn.” Rhea flashes the gang tattoo on her wrist. “My name is Rhea. Rhea Cardulla.”

“You’re spice runners?”

“Yes, among other things.”

“What other things?”

“Mostly gambling and prostitution. Maul is our leader.”

“I gathered that. So . . . you’re criminals?” The question is blunt with an edge to it.

Rhea owns up to her circumstances. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” She’s a criminal and a traitor and now a Jedi smuggler too.

“I knew I had a bad feeling about you people.” The girl digests Rhea’s information a moment before she counsels, “You might want to rethink your life.”

Rhea responds with a cool look. “You might want to keep opinions like that to yourself. They won’t go over well here.” Because, among other things, they’re the ones saving her. Normally, Rhea wouldn’t be so forthright, but the Jedi girl’s youth makes Rhea feel like her equal. She looks about her age, maybe even younger.

But Rhea can see that the Jedi is struggling. That mind reading thing looked very painful and she’s pretty beat up. So, Rhea offers, “Do you want my arm? Am I walking too fast?”

“I’m fine.”

“Here, lean on me.”

“I said I’m fine!” The Jedi shrugs her off. “I don’t need your help.”

“Okay.” Rhea does not insist.

Despite her battered face, the Jedi girl is attractive in an even featured, sporty kind of way. Plus, she’s fully human so she’s got that going for her as well. She’s not a trashy Twi’lek people look down upon. She’s even got the magic Force that Maul reveres. Rhea has to fight the urge to dislike her immediately from sheer jealousy. Because this prickly Jedi girl has all the beauty, status, and talent that Rhea wishes she could offer Maul.

They pass one of the gang’s lieutenants now on the way to Rhea’s cabin. He stops her. “Hey Rhea, got anything for me to eat?”

“Sure.” She does her job as ship’s hostess. “Cook sent a plate of cookies. They’re on the counter. And there’s cold beer in the fridge. Plenty of dinner leftovers as well. Sir, would you like me to heat something up?”

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks, babe.” The man slips by them in search of his evening snack.

The interaction prompts the Jedi girl to turn her attention to Rhea now. “Are you their slave? Is that it? I saw the chain.”

“I’m a gang member,” Rhea responds a little sharply. “I’m a full member of the Crimson Dawn crime family.”

“You sound proud.”

“I am.”

“I see.”

But the Jedi woman doesn’t see. Not really. She’s too busy making assumptions. She’s the wanted fugitive and yet the Jedi is looking at Rhea with pity.

The conversation goes downhill from there. “Did they hurt you?” the girl asks as they keep walking. “Is that why you joined the gang?”

“I joined because they helped me.”

“Did they do that to your face?”

“No. It’s from the war.”

“Oh.”

“I was an orphan. The gang took me in.”

“You mean they preyed on you.”

“They gave me a home. They’re my family now.”

The Jedi girl purses her swollen, split lips as she persists in spinning the narrative she perceives. “So . . . you have embraced your abusers.”

Rhea objects to that conclusion. She says what she firmly believes: “I’m not a victim any longer.”

“You can’t even see it, can you?” the other girl observes softly. “I saw that chain.”

“That was for show for the Hutts.”

“Is it easier if you tell yourself that?”

Rhea walks faster now because that condescension grates. These are the sorts of attitudes that slowly turned the galaxy’s peoples away from their self-appointed spiritual guides, she thinks. The magical peacekeeper Jedi spent far too much time telling others how to live while they themselves promoted conflict. Rhea’s not discounting Darth Sidious’ role in the downfall of the Republic. But she recognizes that the smug Jedi were part of the problem. Even now, this wanted enemy of the state is preaching to Rhea when she should be a little more thankful for her rescue. And while this girl probably thinks she is offering compassion, it smacks strongly of judgement.

She keeps piling on, too. “Whoever said crime doesn’t pay never saw this ship. This is a fancy ship,” the girl disapproves.

Rhea sets her lips in a firm line and says nothing.

Soon, they have arrived. “This is it.” Rhea opens the door to her quarters.

“No lock?”

“This isn’t a jail cell,” she bristles. “People respect closed doors in the gang. Here.” Rhea grabs for a tissue. “You’re bleeding a little still.”

“Where?”

“From your nose.”

“Thanks.” It’s the first indication of gratitude from the young woman so far.

There’s a knock at the door now. Her guest jumps and grabs for her sword. But she stands down when she sees it’s just the copilot with a first aid kit.

Rhea can understand her wariness. This girl is hunted, after all. She attempts to reassure her. “There’s no need to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid!”

“Right. Got it.”

“Who is that Maul guy?”

“He’s our leader.”

“You already said that. Who is he? What does he want with some Jedi Master? And why does a criminal know Alderaan’s Senator?”

Rhea sidesteps the questions. “Let’s get you cleaned up. The shower is in there.” She gestures to the bathroom. “We’ve got a small laundry onboard. If you’ll toss your clothes on the counter, I can take them for a quick wash. It will be fifteen minutes max before they’re fresh and clean.”

“I want answers.”

Rhea ignores her. “While you’re in the shower and the clothes are washing, I’ll warm you some food.”

“Don’t make me pull my sword,” the Jedi girl threatens.

“Please don’t. Look, er—“

“Sima. Sima Noor of Temple Chandrila.”

“Sima, please let me follow orders. I’m supposed to help you.”

“I’m going to pull my sword.”

“Don’t threaten me.” Rhea’s patience is waning. She summons her best I-meet-with-Senators voice as she refuses to be intimidated. “If you do, Maul might reconsider and deliver you to Coruscant to score some points with the Empire and collect your bounty.” Rhea frowns openly at the battered young woman and complains, “Are you always this hard to help?”

The Jedi girl stares her down. Her eyes look tired and old beyond her years. She’s miserable and it shows. With a sigh, she explains: “Accepting help is dangerous if you’re a fugitive. Usually, it’s a stall tactic to kill time before the Inquisitor shows up. I’ve been betrayed more than once by people who said they would help me.”

The comment puts some of her attitude in perspective. Rhea drops her own prickliness and tries a more conciliatory approach. “Sima, no one’s going to betray you. We’re trying to get you to safety. There are people on Alderaan who give safe haven to Jedi.”

Her sincerity must resonate. The Jedi too backs down. “Alright. But I want to listen in on that call to the Senator.”

“I’ll ask Maul if he will allow it.”

“Do you do everything that guy says?”

“Well, yes. He’s the boss. Think of him like my Jedi Master.”

“He’s got the skills of a Jedi Master.” Sima now fishes for information. “Does Maul have a sword?”

“You can ask him.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Yes, he has a sword.” It’s common knowledge, Rhea decides, so she hasn’t revealed anything.

“What color is it?”

“Does that matter?”

“Traditionally, yes.”

“It’s red.” That too is common knowledge.

“It’s red??”

“He’s red too. They match,” she makes a lame attempt at a joke.

Sima is back to being skittish again. “Red sword? You lied! He’s not a good guy.”

Rhea’s response is vehement. “He is! He is! He’s saving you, isn’t he? Do you know what people risk by harboring a Jedi? Vader himself may come for you,” she hisses, “and then we’re all as good as dead.”

And, actually, Maul would probably like for Vader to show up. Rhea knows what he’s doing—he’s ingratiating himself with Bail Organa and proving his moral virtue by saving this Jedi. It’s all a means to impress the rebel hierarchy. So Maul can ascend to their leadership when the time comes to openly oppose his father.

Does it matter that Maul has ulterior motives? Does it make what he does today any less good? Is it the intent that governs or the consequences? If good intentions mitigate bad acts, then do bad intentions lessen good ones? How do you judge these things?

People who do good things are good people. People who do bad things are bad people. But what about people who do both? What about people like Maul? Rhea is pretty sure she knows how this Jedi girl would assess him. But she herself is far from certain. Maul is a very complicated man. But then again, life is complicated. That’s part of why the simplistic, bright line rulemaking of the Jedi Order failed the galaxy so spectacularly.

Sima backs down now. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just that I have seen what the Inquisitors do with their red blades.”

“And the Hutts? Do you know what they’re like?” Rhea is shrill. “Maul says the Hutts think of hurting women as entertainment. Be glad you just got gifted to Crimson Dawn. We’re criminals, but we’re not Hutts! And we’re not the Empire either. Maul hates the Empire.”

“So I gather.”

“It’s not because of the spice trade. This isn’t about business. This is about who Vader is. About what Vader does. Maul meant it when he said he wants to kill him.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

The other girl nods. “Strong emotions, true beliefs—they resonate in the Force. Just like what you are telling me now does. It tells me you mean what you say.”

“Oh.”

The Jedi is a bit sheepish now as she explains, “Look, I’ve learned the hard way to be careful and to be skeptical.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” Rhea feels her indignation dissipate. She’s a little stressed and perhaps she has become righteous herself. Like her, this young woman’s life was turned upside down with the war. It can’t be fun to be a Jedi these days and Rhea wouldn’t ever want to be a prisoner of the Hutts.

“Trust is hard for people like me,” the Jedi says exactly what Rhea is thinking. “And I’ve never met anyone like Maul before. He’s . . . different. Force users always have a side--Jedi or Sith. I guess I wasn’t aware that there were some who are unaffiliated.”

Not really, but Rhea keeps that to herself.

“He is very powerful.”

Rhea has always assumed that, but here is independent confirmation. Still, she’s curious. “How can you tell?”

“That mind reading thing. He’s . . . impressive.”

“I guess. I don’t have the Force,” Rhea admits. Glancing at the five bacta patches she has plucked from the first aid kit, she wonders if it will be enough. “Where are you hurt? Is it more than just what I can see?”

“I have some bruises. I took a kick and a few punches.” Sima lifts her shirt and they both inspect the ugly dark purple contusions.

And now, Rhea feels compelled to ask another, far more uncomfortable question. “You weren’t . . . I mean they didn’t . . . er . . . the Hutts are very . . . “ She can’t get the words out.

“Yes?”

“I guess I’m asking if they . . . uh . . . uh . . . hurt you in other ways . . .” Rhea finishes awkwardly.

“You mean did they rape me? No.”

She exhales with relief. “Okay, good. They are Hutts, so I just thought . . . “

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

That ends that topic. Rhea gets the Jedi in the shower and collects her clothes to be washed. She lays out her own bathrobe on the counter and tells her guest to use it. Then, she tells Sima she’s leaving and will be back shortly.

It prompts the Jedi to stick her head out of the shower. “Rhea. You said your name is Rhea, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Rhea.”

“I’m just following orders.”

“No, you’re not. The Force tells me you want to help me independent of your boss.”

“That’s true.”

“Well, I still have a bad feeling about this . . . like you’re hiding something,” the Jedi accuses.

Yikes! How does she answer that? Rhea now retreats, calling, “I’ll be back soon,” as she dashes out.

She returns with food and clean clothes. She helps to affix the bacta patches and to smooth bacta salve over Sima’s beaten face. She keeps the conversation to a minimum, worried she will reveal something she shouldn’t. Predictably, when it’s time to return to Maul to call Bail Organa, the Jedi girl insists on accompanying her. Rhea doesn’t bother arguing. She punts to Maul to decide the issue.

When they arrive to knock at the door to Maul’s office, it slides open as they approach. He knows they’re here through the Force.

Maul raises an eyebrow pointedly at Sima’s inclusion, silently questioning her presence. The Jedi stands her ground. “I believe I am entitled to hear the arrangements for my own rescue,” she announces.

“Sir, she insisted.”

Maul considers a moment and then relents. “Very well.” He addresses Rhea now as he beckons her over. He hands her one of his fancy comlinks that generates a hologram image. “Our friend the Major gave me a direct number for Organa. It’s preprogrammed as the first entry.”

“Okay,” she nods.

“Hold it close when you dial. Put your face on display. He won’t pick up if he doesn’t recognize the caller.”

“He’ll remember me. No one forgets my face.”

Does Maul hear the bitterness behind her words? He must. “See? It has its uses,” he tells her gently.

“What do I tell him?”

“That we need to meet. Don’t say my name. Don’t say the name of the gang or other identifying details. Don’t say the word Jedi. Imagine the Imperials are listening before you say anything.”

Rhea gulps. “Got it.”

“Our signal is scrambled. They’ll have to work hard to trace this to Crimson Dawn. We’re protected. Organa is the one exposed unless this is some sort of burner comlink he’s using. And even then, it’s a risk. Very likely the only reason he’s not in an Imperial work camp by now is that he’s a longtime prominent Senator and his wife is a head of state.”

“Okay.”

“Get his attention and he will know what you’re doing. He’ll play along. You,” Maul points a finger at Sima, “you stay off camera. The Empire knows to look for you and they know Organa hides Jedi. I’m sure his transmissions are periodically intercepted. If they see you and run facial recognition software, you’re caught and you’ve just implicated him.”

“Understood.” Sima nods.

Maul continues his instructions to her now. “Say as little as possible. The goal is to get a rendezvous point where we can safely talk in person and dump this Jedi.”

“Got it.”

“If he doesn’t pick up, don’t leave a message. Now, go on. Dial him. Let’s do this.” Maul too now backs away from the comlink hologram camera’s field of view.

Taking a deep breath, Rhea activates the comlink. It rings an agonizing five times before a hologram appears. It’s fuzzy with static because they’re in hyperspace. But yes, that’s the handsome face and tall, broad shouldered form of Alderaan’s famous legislator.

“Senator Organa?” Rhea squeaks as Maul nods reassuringly from across the room.

“Ms. Cardulla.” The rebel organizer remembers her. Immediately, he asks about Maul. “Is your associate there as well?”

“Yes. H-He’s here. He’s listening.” Rhea’s eyes find Maul who indicates for her to hurry up. She gets right to the point. “We’d like a meeting, Senator.”

“Is this about our mutual project?”

“Er . . . no.” Trying to be as vague as possible, she improvises. “We have a refugee situation we are hoping you can assist with.”

“A refugee? Can my office handle it?”

“No. This requires personal attention. It is a most delicate matter.” Rhea is choosing her words carefully and it shows.

“I see.” Bail Organa frowns and hesitates.

That spurs her to action. “One moment please, Senator.”

Setting the comlink down, Rhea walks off-camera to Sima and demands, “Give me your sword.”

The Jedi hesitates and impatient Maul orders, “Do it. The longer this takes, the more chance you’re getting caught.”

Sima hands over her weapon.

Rhea walks back into view of the hologram transmission and flashes the borrowed lightsaber to Bail Organa. It’s an instantly recognizable symbol of the Jedi Order. “Senator, it’s this sort of situation.”

That gesture elicits an immediate response. “I understand. I will help.”

Rhea and Sima exhale at that news. Maul is his usual inscrutable poker face.

“Time is of the essence. Tell us where to meet your people.”

“Someone will be sending your associate coordinates for a rendezvous point shortly. Proceed there immediately with the refugee. Make sure you aren’t followed.”

“Will do.”

“Where are you now?” Organa asks.

Rhea looks to Maul who supplies their hyperspace lane and nearest system. She relays the information.

“What’s your ship? I need to know to preclear you for landing. Are you in the usual fighter?”

“No. We’re in his big yacht.”

“He flies a yacht?” The Senator blinks at this news. He looks amused. “Not what I expected.”

“Oh, yes,” nervous Rhea assures him. “It’s a great big one.” Thinking of where they have just come from, she explains, “In his line of work, sometimes he has to live the thug life.”

The Senator looks confused.

Rhea starts babbling. “You know . . . he has to look like a big balling, shot calling, phat rainmaking, big pimping . . . uh . . . gangster type.”

Across from her Maul scowls.

Rhea can feel her face flush. That gang slang probably wasn’t the most articulate choice of words for this setting. She tries to explain. “Because you know . . . some people sort of expect that . . . ” she finishes weakly with a grimace.

“So what you’re telling me is that you will arrive looking very conspicuous?” The Senator frowns. “As a big baller, shot caller . . . what was that last bit again?”

“Uh . . . phat rainmaking, big pimping gangster . . . uh . . . thug . . . dude . . .” she repeats, her voice trailing off. Rhea cringes as indignant Maul crosses his arms and glares reproof at her.

“That is not at all how I would describe him,” Bail Organa responds with admirable tact. “But I’ll take your word for it since you know him better. Hang up now,” the stuffy Senator’s lips are twitching with amusement. “I look forward to meeting you, your boss, and this refugee.”

“Thank you, Senator.”

“And Rhea—Ms. Cardulla—“

“Yes?”

“Thank you, as always, for your bravery.” Bail Organa bestows a proud, fatherly smile on her. It lights up his eyes even across lightyears of distance on a hologram. The Senator now invokes the formal farewell blessing of the bygone Republic, telling her, “May the Force be with you.”

Rhea responds reflexively and solemnly with the customary rejoinder, “And also with you.”

The call ends and the hologram fuzzes out. It leaves an awkward silence as Maul stares her down. His yellow eyes are full of censure.

“I’m sorry!” Rhea yelps. “I’m really sorry, Sir!!” She wrings her hands as she instinctively backs away. “You’re a businessman, I know . . .”

“I am not a thug,” Maul hisses as he orders, “Take the Jedi back to your quarters and report here at once.”

“Yes, Sir.”

But the Jedi in question has other ideas. “Senator Organa is one of the regime’s most vocal critics,” Sima reasons aloud, “and you did say you hate Vader . . .” Sima looks from Maul to her and back again before she guesses, “You’re not just spice runners, you’re rebels, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no!” Rhea immediately answers. “Not at all!” It’s terribly unconvincing. So she tries again, accusing, “Why would you say such a thing?”

Across from her, Maul face palms.

“You ARE rebels!” Sima deduces.

“Oh, no? Haven’t you heard? I’m a big baller, shot caller—“

“He’s a businessman!” Rhea corrects immediately. 

“He’s a rebel!” the Jedi beside her beams.

“How could you tell?” Maul deploys his withering sarcasm. “Was it the part at the end when she practically pledged allegiance to the Republic and sang its anthem?”

Sima’s eyes now narrow on Maul. “Are you sure you’re not a Jedi?” she asks hopefully. “Like, really sure??”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he retorts. He seethes at Rhea. “You two are making me wish I had turned her in to the Empire.”

“Oh, you can’t do that—“

“Of course, I can’t,” he snaps. “I’ve got Senator Organa expecting us.”

“But it’s true—right? You know of the rebellion against the Empire?” the Jedi girl looks to Maul for confirmation.

“There is no rebellion,” he grouses, “not yet, at least.”

“But there will be! I know there will! The people are tired of all the restrictions and the injustice, of the overbearing use of force and the harsh punishments—“

Maul makes a face. “Today I just tried to tell a Hutt that war is coming and he didn’t believe me.”

“I believe you! And I want to be part of it!” Sima enthusiastically volunteers.

Maul shoots her an annoyed look. “Don’t sign up with me. Sign up with Bail Organa. The only thing I recruit for is Crimson Dawn, and we don’t hire Jedi. We’re thugs or haven’t you heard?” he jeers with another sharp look Rhea’s direction.

“Maybe so, but you’re the good guys,” the Jedi decides with approval.

Maul rolls his eyes. “Get her out of here!” he rasps. “Now!”

Rhea hastens to comply.

When she returns, Maul has that slave collar and chain in his hands. “Oh, no,” Rhea objects since they are finally alone and no one will see. “You’re not putting that thing on me again—“

“Guess again. Come take your punishment, little one. No one calls me a good guy and a thug and gets away unscathed.”

Rhea backs up. “Maul, no! Not again—“

“You’re very fetching in this,” he tells her softly. He brandishes the tether and the metal jingles.

Is he mocking her? She can’t tell. The man is so sardonic, but he also can be terribly threatening. It means at times you never know if he’s serious. But just in case, Rhea backs up some more. “Is this some fantasy of yours?”

“It is now. Now that I’m a thug with a reputation to uphold, I need a hot slave girl on a chain to complete the look.”

“It was a poor choice of words—I take it back—“

“Rhea, don’t be fooled.” He’s not mocking now. “I am a lord of the Sith, a prince of Darkness. We are architects of the future. We are leaders.”

“I know that.”

“Whether I’m also a thug or not is probably a matter of opinion,” Maul smirks. He jingles the chain again for emphasis. “But let me assure you that I am never, ever going to be the good guy.”

“Is that what this is about??”

“This is about how good you look in a chain. Now come over here and hold still for me.”

He’s serious. “But Maul—“

They are interrupted when his comlink buzzes loudly. It’s an incoming message, not a call.

Diverted from his efforts, Maul checks the message. He announces, “Draven sent the rendezvous coordinates.” Squinting at them, Maul heads to his desk and grabs a datapad to punch them in. The location appears as a projected map overhead.

“That’s Alderaan alright,” Rhea perceives as the map takes shape and rapidly becomes more detailed. “It looks like a city.” It’s not the deserted extra-planetary orbit rendezvous she was expecting. Wherever this is, it looks far from anonymous.

“It’s their capital city,” Maul deduces from the datapad he’s holding. He enlarges the detail and a dense, urban landscape appears. “So,” he muses wryly as he keeps poking at the datapad, “the safehouse Organa uses for hiding Jedi is his wife’s royal palace.”

“Really?” Rhea reacts. “Sounds risky.”

“But convenient. No doubt he has all the goodwill and loyalty there he needs,” Maul reasons, “as well as control over the eyes and ears that surround him. And no one is surprised to see the spouse of the head of state and an Imperial Senator come and go from there at all hours with strangers.”

“It sure is risky,” she repeats.

“There’s no plausible deniability if he’s caught,” Maul concedes. “The Jedi must be a very personal cause of his to risk so much. There’s no way his queen would not be implicated if he is found out. And that sort of thing would be an excellent pretext to put the whole system under direct control of an Imperial governor like Mimban and the other revolting planets.”

Rhea looks to Maul and says what they’re both thinking. “This means he trusts us. He really trusts us.”

“Yes. It does.” Maul’s smile is sly.

“This is good?”

“This is very good. You and that Jedi are helping me convincingly pretend to be the good guy.” He slides yellow eyes pointedly her direction to emphasize, “Which I’m not.”

“Maul, you’re not the bad guy,” she contends. “Not really. I mean, you’re not the good guy either, of course. You’re just . . . the guy . . . a guy . . . I guess . . .”

He puts down the datapad and turns to her. His voice is low and slow as again those bloodshot yellow eyes lock with hers. “This Jedi rescue is an act. Merely a ruse. I want to deceive them, but not you. Rhea,” he approaches and reaches a hand up to cup at her scarred cheek, “all along, I have told you nothing but truth. Little one, I want to be honest with you. You’ve made an honest Sith of me.”

The comment makes her smile. “I know.”

“Good. Now take that dress off. Wear just the chain for me.”

What?? “But Maul—“

“You said you like a thug. I’ll be your Hutt tonight,” he chuckles low in his throat. Those yellow eyes are twinkling now and he’s downright devilish looking. It’s irresistible. Conniving Sith that he is, this handsome horned Zabrak has charmed her completely. 

But that comment reminds Rhea. “Wait—we never talked about Marlo the Hutt. He knows, Maul, did you hear what he said? I think he knows—“

“He does not. That’s just Marlo’s way. He fishes around to see if you react to what he says. That’s one crafty Hutt.”

“So that talk about Vader??” she worries as she bats away a frisky hand.

“Just a boast. Marlo doesn’t know anything except maybe rumors.”

Troubled Rhea turns back to look up at the screen displaying the map of Alderaan. She frowns. “What if giving you the Jedi is a trap?” she frets. “What if it’s a way to set up Bail Organa?”

“What are you worried about?”

She shoots her boss a serious look over her shoulder. “That Vader will be there when we land.”

Maul’s eyes sparkle and he leers, “Bring it on.” For this Sith loves danger. It turns him on, she’s learning.

“I’m serious—“

“So am I. Relax.” He places heavy, reassuring hands on her shoulders. “That Hutt knows nothing of consequence.”

“How can you be sure?” 

“He was entirely too nervous for that conversation. If Marlo had something on me, he wouldn’t have been nervous.”

“He didn’t look nervous. How do you know he was nervous?” Rhea asks, sidestepping yet another incoming grope. 

“The Force,” Maul purrs as he slides up close again. She’s caught now, like they have both intended all along. Maul’s hands roam freely as they reach from behind. This time, she doesn’t resist. She relaxes to his touch. It feels so good to be wanted by a man such as this.

“The Force tells me all sorts of things,” he croons over her ear. “Right now, it’s showing me the future. You’re naked with me.”

“Oh, Maul,” she blushes at his corny joke. 

“Say it again,” he requests. So she does. But this time, it comes out a little husky. More like a moan than a ‘Maul.’ It eggs him on like she hopes. 

They have become quite comfortable with each other in bed by now. That means she’s familiar with Maul’s penchant for dirty talk. He narrates almost all of their erotic encounters. Adding the verbal play to their physical interaction makes things more exciting. Rhea loves it.

“You’re so wet already,” he discovers as he hikes up her long uniform skirt from behind. Thankfully, Maul has dispensed with the idea of that chain. His greedy hands slip down into her panties. He’s still got his gloves on. The feel of leather against her most sensitive parts is beguiling. Rhea can’t repress a sigh. “You want this, don’t you?” Maul purrs as he looms tall over her shoulder.

“Yes,” she gasps, arching back against him. She can’t get enough of this man. They maintain a respectful professional distance before others. But when he lays his hands on her, it is like pouring accelerant on smoldering embers. Things flame hot immediately.

Sometimes Maul describes what he’s doing to her, but mostly it is a wish list of acts he’s no longer capable of. Like now, as he caresses her and rubs his cold steel lower half against her backside. He grinds in a pantomime of what he wants, telling her, “I would pull your headtails hard as I mounted you on all fours bantha-style.”

That’s not an option. Still, the shared fantasy is titillating all the same. Maul alternates between raunchy slang she heard at the brothel and more romantic endearments. It’s a mix of devotion and lust, and long scorned Rhea can’t hear it enough. For it is wildly arousing to be so fiercely desired.

“You don’t know how badly I want to fuck you,” is a serious lament, but also hot to her attention starved ears. “I would pound you every night, I would chain you to my bed, you would be mine whenever I wish.” He calls her his naughty little housemaid and tells her all the ways they would mate. That he would make her lick and kiss and suck his big red cock and swallow when he’s done. That he would bend her forward over his desk, or lay her down on the grass in a field of battle wreckage, or maybe hold her high with the Force and look her in the eye as they came together. It’s a vocalized daydream, since they both have to imagine what he speaks. It’s not much, but they have to be content to take what they can get.

Maul is not a casual man in any sense. What he says and what he does is usually premeditated. And so, to hear him lapse into such colloquialism feels like she has truly broken through his shell of posturing. Like this is as genuine as anything the man does. And that, more than anything, makes their meager bedroom options feel completely satisfying. Because Rhea at least gets her physical release and together they achieve a meaningful connection.

Theirs is an intimacy that goes beyond the sex acts they perform. That matters to Rhea, who spent years working in a brothel where any number of corporeal wishes were fulfilled and yet it was all very transactional. Sure, maybe she’s Maul’s plaything—they don’t have a word for themselves and Rhea doesn’t mind. But she firmly believes what they do behind closed doors is more than just physical. It has to be, given how vulnerable Maul allows himself to be with her. “You’re my new addiction,” he heaves. Calling her ‘mine’ over and over again. There is an insecurity beneath those words that she recognizes. And also, more than a little Dark possessiveness.

Tonight, as usual, it’s mostly his monologue. Her contributions are quick exhortations: his name, ‘yes,’ ‘more’, and ‘don’t stop.’ These are spoken between moans, grunts, and pants as she rises to her climax. And given the delicious feel of those leather gloves, Rhea will be there soon enough. 

But this time, Maul wants to try something new. “Relax. Relax, little one. Relax and let me in. I want to try something.”

She’s confused in her heightened state of passion. Because what is he talking about? Those leather fingers are already inside her. This Dark he-witch has all the access he needs to work his magic. 

“Relax. Don’t fight. Let it happen.”

“Yes,” she slurs her response. For she will deny him nothing.

“Good. Goooood,” he rasps in his high, soft tenor. In this pose, he is like a devil on her shoulder. Urging her on to more and more carnal abandon.

Except he’s not. For Darth Maul already has her body. He has her heart too, although she doesn’t intend to embarrass them both by confessing it. But Sith that he is, he wants more. Much more. He wants to inhabit her mind too.

“OH!” Rhea lurches forward in an instinctive attempt to evade the threatening intrusion. She begins to shake her head violently as if to thrust him out of her consciousness.

“Shhhh . . . settle down . . . relax. It only hurts if you tense up.”

This is what he did to the Jedi girl earlier. This is what Sima felt. Well, maybe not. Maul isn't searching her memories or asking her questions. He’s just loitering in her mind.

“Good girl,” he praises. “Settle down and get used to me.”

She tries. She’s trembling now as he stops his attentions and holds her tightly from behind. His big, muscle-and-sinew arms and chiseled chest surround her. He’s her protector even as he is her tormentor.

“Yes,” he hisses. “Let this be pleasure not pain. The first penetration always hurts a little until you adjust to it.” If she didn’t know he was talking about her mind, she would never guess it.

Rhea doesn’t know how long they remain in that embrace. She’s a bit befuddled and woozy. Sort of detached as well. Like the few times she inhaled too many leftover spice fumes when she was cleaning a smoky bedroom back at the brothel. But at some point, Maul must decide she is alright because he resumes his romantic attentions. 

This is weird, very weird. She doesn’t hear his voice in her ears, but in her mind. Telling her in lurid, graphic detail just how much he wants her to finish so he can experience it with her. He is relentless in his seduction. He bends her backward and sprawling over his desk. Teasing and rubbing under her skirt even as she gasps for air. She shifts and Maul immediately compensates to maximize her sensation. It’s like he knows exactly what she’s thinking . . . because, of course, he does.

Rhea will come to realize that there is no bad sex when your minds are joined, but this very first time it feels almost magical how expertly he manipulates her body. Maul leaves her lingering on the precipice of oblivion, her body tensed with anticipation. Almost, but not quite there, until finally she hurtles into ultimate pleasure. It’s nothing she hasn’t felt regularly in Maul’s arms before. Except this time, he’s right there with her.

His shout of joy is everything in the moment. But the accompanying intense rush that floods her mind is too much. She is overwhelmed. Rhea’s eyes roll back as she slumps and loses all awareness.

She wakes lying on Maul’s bed in his quarters aboard the cruiser. His concerned face fills her vision as he hovers close. “Rhea? Rhea, tell me you’re fine--”

“W-What happened?”

“You blacked out. Just for a few minutes.”

“A few minutes??”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t have words to describe what she remembers happening. “I—we—“

“Yes,” his worried face splits into a smile and he says it again, “Yes.”

“Are you alright?”

“You’re the one to worry about.”

“I’m fine . . . I think.” She sits up on her elbows blinking. “I’m fine now.” She feels fine and her mind is her own again. Everything is normal. She looks up and confirms, “I’m fine.”

“Good,” he looks both relieved and excited. “Because we’re doing that again. Just not tonight. Rest now.”

“So you felt that?”

He nods and smiles broadly. “All of it.”

“So that means—“

“I can experience it all again through you. What my body can no longer do, yours can do for me.”

“That’s good?”

“That’s very good.” The gloves are off now. Maul smooths a red hand over her brow and leans to drop a kiss where he just caressed. “Sleep now. I will wake you when we get close to Alderaan. It’s at least six hours with the traffic.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” One corner of his mouth lifts in a lopsided smile as he adds, “That’s an order.”

Hours later when the handoff of the fugitive Jedi to Bail Organa finally occurs, it is a predictably tense affair. Maul’s big cruiser descends into low orbit where it is immediately swarmed by local sentry ships. It’s the Royal Guard of Alderaan arriving to escort them to the restricted airspace of the palace. As the big ship begins its landing approach, Rhea, Maul, and Sima walk briskly from the cockpit to the boarding area.

Maul issues terse instructions. “This needs to happen fast. We’re not going to linger to get caught. Rhea, you stay out of sight. I don’t want any Imperial surveillance to connect you to that earlier transmission. Your face is far too distinctive not to get noticed.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Jedi, do as you’re told and save the pitch to join the rebels for a better time. Now is not it.”

“Understood.”

Glancing out the row of windows they pass as the cruiser completes its landing cycle, Maul grunts. “There’s Organa. He’s walking out to meet us. Good. He’s alone.”

“No Darth Vader?” Rhea whispers.

“Today, I’m the only one in black with a lightsaber.”

They reach the cruiser’s boarding area now. Crimson Dawn’s boss turns to point a gloved finger at the mechanism that deploys the ramp. It activates with the Force.

“Show off,” Sima grumbles.

Maul smirks. “Practice more, Jedi, and you too will be able to complete simple tasks with your mind.” But then suddenly, his face darkens and his attention diverts.

Sima might not recognize it, but Rhea does. “Is something wrong?”

“I sense something,” he breathes aloud. “A presence . . .”

Sima pipes up. “I feel it too.” She closes her eyes and concentrates.

“D-Darth Vader?” Rhea worries aloud as she looks from Sima to Maul.

“No. I think it’s another Jedi . . .” Sima breathes with excitement.

“Yessss,” Maul concurs. He looks blank though, like he cannot place whoever it is who he notices.

Sima explains for Rhea’s benefit. “All individuals leave a mental imprint in the Force. Jedi leave especially large imprints. We can sometimes sense each other even if we don’t know each other. It makes it hard for anyone to sneak up on us,” she boasts.

“Provided they’re not cloaking their imprint,” Maul remarks.

“You can do that?” Sima seems shocked.

Maul sniffs, “Never met a true Sith, have you? Just those wannabe Inquisitors?”

Sima nods. She’s oblivious to the irony of the question.

“Vader and Sidious use them as assassins merely. They won’t deign to share that sort of useful knowledge with their underlings.”

“But you can hide in the Force??”

Maul gives the young Jedi a level look. “Do you really think Chancellor Palpatine sat in briefings with the Jedi Council for decades with his full Dark Side self blazing?”

“I guess not.”

“Deception is the hallmark of the Sith,” Maul schools her. “Few things are what they appear on the Dark Side.”

Sima nods slowly. “Looks can deceive, I know. Like how you aren’t who you pretend to be.”

Maul looks to her sharply.

The Jedi hastens to explain, “I mean, you lead Crimson Dawn and yet you’re also a good guy.”

Maul grunts and eyes her coolly. “Keep my secret, Jedi.”

The boarding ramp has fully deployed. “Aren’t we going down?” Sima is ready to head the landing pad.

“No. We’re following Organa’s lead in this. Let him come to us.”

It’s a plausible request, but Rhea recognizes immediately that Maul is hiding from whatever Jedi he senses. For fear his good guy cover will be blown by a Jedi old enough to remember Darth Maul, unlike the young former Padawan they are currently rescuing.

Seconds later, Bail Organa completes his long walk to meet the ship. The Senator doesn’t break stride as he marches straight up the ramp to intercept their trio waiting at the top just inside the luxury cruiser.

“Maul.”

“Senator.”

“Ms. Cardulla.”

“Senator.”

“And you are?”

“My name is Sima Noor, Temple Chandrila.”

“Welcome,” the Senator addresses the very relieved and suddenly starstruck looking young Jedi. “You are safe here. We’ll get you a medic inside. It looks like the journey here was a little rough.”

“She’ll live. It’s all superficial,” Maul opines gruffly.

Organa now turns to take the measure of his co-conspirator. “I admit I had my doubts—a lot of doubts—about you, Maul. But you came through in this and in our other endeavor.”

The gangster Sith nods with all the gravitas of the prince he secretly is. He responds, “I am a man of my word.” And that’s probably technically true. For Rhea has learned that the Sith deceive mostly by what they omit, rather than by what they say.

“Even I get surprised now and then, I suppose,” Bail Organa allows. “I’m glad for it. Very glad for it, Maul. Sometimes, it’s good to be wrong.”

This is goodbye, so Rhea bids Sima, “Good luck.”

“There’s no such thing as luck,” she and Maul answer back in accidental unison.

The moment makes Bail Organa smile. His eyes twinkle. Really, Rhea thinks to herself, it’s hard not to like the guy. The Senator is something of a noble realist, she judges. More calm than he is charismatic, but idealistic all the same. He’s taking an awful risk saving Jedi in his spare time when he’s not plotting a revolution under his guise as Senator. Bail Organa might not be a Sith, but in his own way he lives a life of deception. Neither he nor Maul are who they pretend to be. Both are liars.

But what does that mean? There are lies we tell ourselves and lies we tell others. There are white lies and ugly lies. Big lies and harmless small ones. Ones that do damage and ones that prevent hurt feelings. From intentional fake news, to ‘no, you don’t look fat,’ to holonet rumors run rampant, lies abound. Deception is an intrinsic part of everyday life. The Sith have simply made people’s nature their strategy, Rhea realizes. For we are all willing to deceive and be deceived.

It’s frightening how malleable truth is. Almost as frightening as how indeterminate goodness can be. It all depends on your point of view, Rhea decides. But looking from Bail Organa to Maul, Rhea thinks that these two dangerous men have more in common than either suspect. Today, each for different reasons, they have conspired to flout the Empire’s purge to save a young woman’s life. Maul might refute it, but today he and Bail Organa are the good guys.

Rhea now tries again at some parting words for Sima. “May the Force be with you.”

“And also with you,” the young Jedi answers. Sima expresses her gratitude to Maul as well. “Thank you for giving me this chance. I thought that Hutt would be the death of me.”

Maul nods regally with something approaching noblesse oblige. Rhea gets few glimpses of the boy reared to rule the galaxy, but this is one of them. He is the witch’s firstborn son stolen away and groomed to walk with kings but keep the common touch. Here now is a peek at what this crime lord might have been in a different life. Now more than ever, Rhea regrets that thug comment. For good guy or bad guy, even given the violent and vengeful man that he is, Maul is something of a gentleman. He’s every bit the equal of the patrician Senator standing opposite him.

Bail Organa tells Maul, “I’ll be in touch. Come,” he urges Sima, “for all our sakes, we should not tarry.”

The Senator and the Jedi walk a few paces before Sima halts and turns. “Wait—“ she addresses Maul. “You never said why you want to find Master Kenobi. When you read my mind, you were only interested in Master Kenobi. Why?”

Rhea sends wary eyes Maul’s way, wondering how he will answer the question.

But the secret Sith who just saved a fugitive Jedi gives nothing away. He simply misleads with the truth, as usual. “Obi-Wan Kenobi is the only man to ever have beaten Vader in combat.”

“He did?” Sima reacts.

Bail Organa says nothing.

Maul confirms, “It was at a Separatist mining colony at the war’s end. Supposedly, Kenobi left Vader for dead. He walked away, thinking he had ended him. He was wrong. It is hard to kill a Sith.” Maul says this last bit slowly and quietly. Only Rhea knows he speaks from personal experience.

“Darth Vader lived. He was healed enough to put in that mask and suit. Then the Emperor sent him forth, inflicting him on the galaxy. So yes,” Maul answers, “I want to find Kenobi. He could help us get to Vader. At the very least, he could answer a lot of questions about him.”

“Are you sure Master Kenobi is even still alive?” Sima asks.

“I don’t know.” Rhea watches as Maul’s yellow eyes pin Bail Organa now. “Do you know, Senator?”

Bail Organa shakes his head no. “Perhaps if he is, one day he will surface.”

“One can only hope,” Maul answers.

The Senator and the Jedi resume their exit. Rhea and Maul watch the pair walk away into the fancy palace.

Worried Rhea asks, “That Jedi you sensed—did they sense you as a Sith?”

“No. I hide in the Force still. It is an old habit. Father taught it as his beginning lesson. Back in those days, the Sith were a secret and no one called Darth led the morning newsfeed headlines. But times have changed,” he sighs.

Rhea agrees. “Times have most definitely changed.” Because now the Sith are out in the open and the Jedi are the ones in hiding. The Bail Organas of the world plot in secret while Sheev Palpatine makes no excuses for his actions. He no longer needs to since he holds absolute power.

“Well, at least today is a happy ending,” Rhea comments, looking for the bright side as they turn to walk away from the boarding area.

“Yes. It is a happy ending for us as well,” Maul muses.

Is he talking about last night? “What do you mean?” She lowers her voice. “You’re not talking about--”

He’s not. He’s talking treason, not sex. “We have made significant headway with the rebels.”

“That was your plan, right?”

“Yes. Plus, Organa just lied about Kenobi.”

Rhea stops in her tracks. “How do you know?”

“The Force. Organa knows if Kenobi is alive, and that means he’s alive. The Senator has no reason to keep his death a secret. He may even know where Kenobi hides currently.”

“Oh, wow,” Rhea breathes out. Her mind starts racing with implications.

Ever strategic Maul is already thinking along those lines. “This is progress, little one. Good progress. You and I may need to start saving more Jedi going forward.”

END PART TWO

More to come


	18. chapter 18--story notes to part two

Hello and thanks for reading.

As always, what I write is rooted in canon. Marlo the Hutt is a very minor character from _Clone Wars_. Major Davits Draven (later General Draven in _Rogue One_ ) is canon as well. He’s the guy who orders Cassian Andor to kill Jyn Erso’s father, the Death Star scientist Galen Erso. Pragmatic Draven is a Clone Wars veteran and the Rebel spymaster. He has no problem with assassination type tactics, making him one of the more ruthless Rebellion leaders. I thought he would be the perfect Rebel crony for Maul. Draven also appears in _Twilight of the Gods_ when Vader’s secret second wife presents the Rebellion with a plan to blow up Death Star 2 with Darth Sidious on it.

_Rogue One_ and to some extent _Star Wars Rebels_ show us the lack of unity and the wide spectrum of political and strategic viewpoints amid the fledgling Rebellion. These guys argue and do nothing in _Rogue One_ when presented with the Death Star threat. Only once Jyn Erso and other rebels (including Raddus, who appears in this fic as well) take matters into their own hands, does the Rebellion take action. That internal lack of direction and diffuse leadership find their way into _Rule of Two_.

This period—the Imperial era—has been sort of light on material. _Rebels_ and _Solo_ show us some of what’s going on in the Empire prior to the Rebellion. I’m hoping the Disney+ Cassian Andor show will give us more insight. This is the classic Star Wars time period of good guys versus bad guys, and it’s been the locus of my recent stories. As usual, I’m playing against type. So Vader (the bad guy) is really trying to be the good guy in _Twilight of the Gods_. And bad guy Maul is doing good guy things here in _Rule of Two_. Moreover, the Rebellion itself is orchestrated in large part by Darth Plagueis, the behind-the-scene big baddie who becomes something of the behind-the-scene big good guy in _Twilight of the Gods_. He’s the one left to pick up the pieces at the end.

You see what I’m doing here, right? So much of the drama in the Skywalker saga—well, really in all of Star Wars to date—comes from the ‘will they/won’t they??’ setup of switching sides. Deeply embedded in the ethos of Star Wars is the idea of moral choice. That you choose to be good or you choose to be bad. You really can’t question those categories. Rian Johnson tiptoed around them in Episode 8 giving us a regretful Kylo. And there are suggestions that Qui-Gon Jin isn’t a straight arrow Jedi in Episode 1. But by and large, the Jedi are the good guys and the Sith are the bad guys. The choice is either/or and it’s always signaled by the color of your sword and the color of your clothes.

Moreover, in the movies, you seem to exist as a Sith character to 1) die or 2) be redeemed and then die. The hard stuff of living post-redemption is ignored altogether by the convenient death of the Sith character. Vader dies in Luke’s arms, Kylo dies in Rey’s arms . . . it neatly avoids any issue of punishment going forward. This whole moral construct is rather simplistic and it fits with the George Lucas’ original idea of fashioning a new cultural myth for kids. The problem is that as young fans grew to be middle aged fans, we started wanting more realism and depth to the saga. 

_Clone Wars_ gave that to us. Now, I won’t say every episode was fantastic (I am not a fan of that overwrought Mortis arc so much that I have retconned it in stories like _The Apprentice_ and _Versions of You_ ), but there is no denying that the _Clone Wars_ story deepens and becomes rather alarmingly dark and adult at times. What _Clone Wars_ did in general was to show us the grey areas of the Jedi and the Republic. In its later seasons, it even gives us grey characters. People like Ventress, Ahsoka, and Maul who have fallen out of their neat Jedi/Sith categories. They no longer follow masters and creeds. Their aims are for themselves to decide. That, readers, is uncharted territory for Force users in Star Wars. For even non-Force users in the original trilogy get the same ‘choose your side’ treatment, like Han Solo’s character arc in Episode 4 (is he just in it for the money? Nope.) and Lando Calrissian in Episode 5 (did he really have no choice to betray his friends? When he has a choice, see what he chooses).

So what does it mean to be an unaffiliated Force user? What is your purpose? We know Ahsoka ends up with the Rebellion. Maul ends up at Crimson Dawn and, in my story, at the Rebellion as well. He has ulterior motives, naturally. But the real issue at the heart of this story is yet to be decided. It’s the question spoken by Marlo the Hutt—what does Maul want? Yeah, yeah, I know the short answer: a Sith wants power. But what does that mean among the options available to Maul right now? Does that mean siding with Plagueis, who he worries will betray him? Or siding with Sidious, who might reject him again or betray him as well? And how much of a Sith is Maul at this point? I’m not talking about losing his ‘Darth’ title and Apprentice role, I’m talking about his mindset. Is power really what he’s after? Moreover, what does it mean to be a Sith? Sidious and Plagueis have differing ideas.

Not knowing what you want is a brand-new plot for me. My other heroes always have a grand goal in mind. For if there is anything that defines the Sith ethos, it’s ambition. Most want to rule the galaxy (Darth Sidious, Kylo Ren, sometimes Darth Plagueis). But there are other quests afoot as well. Darth Vader wants to save his son from the Emperor and live up to the Chosen One hype in _Twilight_. In _The Apprentice_ , Darth Bane wants to save the Sith Empire from the Republic and bring back self-exiled Emperor Vitiate from the realm of Mortis. Plagueis and sometimes Kylo Ren ( _Son of Darkness_ ) want to spearhead a religious reformation of the Force. Darth Malgus of _DARKER_ wants to win the war against the Republic and to gain the respect of his disdainful Emperor. Darth Vitiate is just bored—whether he’s bored ruling the Sith Empire ( _Taking the Veil_ ) or bored jailed in the Force realm Mortis ( _Apprentice, Versions of You_ )—the galaxy’s most insecure overlord is looking to make trouble and always finds it. But Darth Maul? Well Maul doesn’t know what he wants. 

  
  
That’s chiefly because he’s conflicted in his loyalties. But here’s the twist, it’s not the classic Dark-Light good versus evil conflict we’re used to seeing in Star Wars. Maul’s conflict is more personal. It’s whether to oppose the father he still loves. Right now, Maul is keeping his options open to see how things develop. But given the right opportunity, he’s basically already decided that he will attempt to reconcile with Darth Sidious. Rhea doesn’t want this for him personally or for herself politically. She’ll be saying so as she gains more confidence and standing in their relationship. I know where the story is heading, but I’m still not yet sure how to get there. So, it’s time to pause and do some thinking. There are still major players to this plot who have yet to make an appearance.

  
So the Star Wars canon couple who set the backdrop for Maul and Rhea are, of course, Malgus and Eleena. For those who are unfamiliar, Star Wars Legends tells us that Darth Malgus discovered a young, abused Twi’lek slave girl named Eleena Daru who he took for his own. Malgus and Eleena ultimately became lovers, companions, and comrades in arms. It was a twisted relationship, with suggestions of emotional and physical abuse. Malgus feared his love for Eleena was a weakness unbecoming a Sith. His rivals knew of the relationship and used it against him. To resolve the issue, Malgus killed his beloved Eleena by driving a lightsaber through her heart. 

In the Sith-iest trope of all tropes, Malgus pines and pines for his lost love (like Vader!). Eleena was his greatest weakness in life, but his greatest strength in death. Pain is a Sith thing and self-inflicted pain is apparently a super Sith thing. So . . . yeah, in canon, Malgus chooses power over love. And that quandary runs through all of my stories: what will you sacrifice for power? What will you sacrifice for love? Different Dark lords answer that question in different ways in my stories. I still get hate mail from how one of my earliest fan fictions stories answered that question. Clunky _Fulcrum_ presents a horrifying but, I think, believable answer for Darth Ren (who since the story was written after TFA, is far more Dark than Kylo Ren’s canon character turns out).

In my version of the Malgus-Eleena tale _DARKER_ , the abusive master-slave girl dynamic is all an act. Just a public front of posturing designed to meet expectations. Honestly, I find the official version of Malgus and Eleena to be pretty distasteful. Not because I like to water down my Sith lords and their violence (I have written abusive, predatory lovers a time or two) but because the official Malgus seems a very unlikely guy to fall for some random slave girl. Frankly, he’s got too much going for him to resort to stooping that far beneath him. But Maul is a different story. The guy is horribly injured with lasting, life changing ramifications. He loses his health and his future when he loses to Kenobi. Then, he loses his mind. Decades later when my story begins, he has rebuilt his life and his body some, but it’s a pale and dissatisfying substitute for what he lost. Unlike Vader who gets to rule the galaxy after he loses everything, Maul gets no consolation prize. His lost glory haunts him. There will never be any amount of achievement that will offset what he lost. It’s the heartache that will never ease and the wound that will never heal. He’s equal parts embarrassed, ashamed, and disappointed. 

But when Maul happens upon another damaged survivor in Rhea, he thinks he has found a kindred spirit. In many ways, he has. Her downward life trajectory is an accident of fate and it cannot compare to the meaning of Sith prince Maul’s losses. But Rhea’s losses (her family, her future, her face) are real and they profoundly affect her in very lasting ways. It gives Rhea and Maul common ground for a relationship. That’s important because there is an enormous gulf of age, power, and experience between our lovers. It’s unusual for my stories, frankly. I like age appropriate heroines who might not all have the Force, but they have plenty of other talents and expertise to compensate. Not so with Rhea, who has very little except for enthusiasm. But that lack of accomplishments makes her very safe for Maul who at all times can feel her superior in every respect. It’s only with an impressionable, easily cowed, truly nice girl like Rhea that Maul will allow himself to be vulnerable. 

Rhea—like many of my original character heroines—mostly exists to be the window through which we see our Dark hero’s struggles and decisions. She is the sounding board and the sidekick. The hero’s struggle becomes her struggle as well, for these women get caught up in the web of lies and conflicts that surround their Dark lord. Some of my heroines make choices that reverberate with major consequences. See, for example, Tosca who keeps Lord Vitiate’s son in _Taking the Veil._ That boy is every threat Vitiate has ever feared, and thwarting that kid’s rise will change the course of history in the Ancient Republic-Ye Olde Sith Empire conflict in _DARKER_. Or consider Shan’s very bad decision to take refuge at a Jedi Temple that gets her and her unborn baby stripped of their Force powers in (the admittedly very cheesy) _Fifth Wife._ Plagueis gets a son with no Force (the horror!!) and that will later spur him to attempt to make one in the Force, which we all know becomes Vader. Anyhow, the main point of the heroine is to be relatable. To be the person with whom our Sith can be vulnerable.

A word about mommy issues. Maul’s big drama is his conflict with his father figure Sidious. Contrast that with his witch mama Mother Talzin who loves Maul and saves him twice—first from insanity and then from death at the hands of a very angry Sidious (this occurs in a comic book, I think. It never got made as a _Clone Wars_ episode after Disney bought the franchise and cancelled the series). Let’s give Mother Talzin some respect, folks. That’s one badass bitch. Don’t get on this gal’s bad side. She goes toe-to-toe with Sidious’ Force lightning and possesses Dooku with her Dark magic. She’s neither Jedi nor Sith, but something far more primal and scary. In my mind, she’s like Erda in Wagner’s Ring cycle.

Seriously, her canon story is AMAZING. She has some unwritten personal history with Dooku in his Jedi years. Dooku did something to help Mother Talzin in the waning days of the Republic—we don’t know what. Years later, they are enemies and Mother Talzin is particularly cruel in her treatment of Dooku. Watch _Clone Wars_ —she uses him like a voodoo doll. Old love affair that ended badly? Hmmm . . . you decide. Then, there is Darth Sidious’ murky relationship with Mother Talzin. Up and coming Senator Sidious shows up to trade knowledge with the witches in the years before the Clone Wars. He promptly runs off with Talzin’s son Maul. That sets into motion an amazing story of vengeance and conflicted loyalties that results in the Maul character of this story. Oh Mommy Talzin, we hardly knew ye!! She’s the femme fatale of Dathomir, who lures the two most influential political figures and Force heavyweights of the late Republic to her lair. She and her Nightsisters literally raise the dead to create an army—are you watching, Darth Plagueis the Wise?? Take notes! She has incredible power and both direct and indirect influence on galactic events. For all those Star Wars fans who complain about lack of female representation, look no farther than Mother Talzin. She’s the real deal.

Best of all, she’s so wholly female in her mindset. Not just some male villain retconned from a male character like Phasma. Talzin is first and foremost a mother—her name even says it—and much of her character interactions--what she does, how she acts, what she wants—are all intrinsically female. There’s a story there and I will write it someday even though no one will read it. I’ve been wanting to write a female Dark Force user heroine.

Anyhow, I digress. I write for stress relief and I need that lately more than ever these days. Times are hard economically, politically, and for me personally as well. After Mr. Blue’s 2018 accident, things were finally looking up. After three surgeries and thirteen months of wheelchairs, walkers, scooters, and canes, all the bones were healed and he was moving short distances and driving and traveling independently. I got Mr. Blue a new physical therapist/trainer team to help him regain strength and lost health. We were going to eat cleanly to get some of that wheelchair weight off. I even announced to the kids that 2020 would be our Year of Fun. We booked a spring break family vacation. It was something to look forward to and to work forward to so that he could be physically strong enough to fully participate. You know what happens next: COVID changed all that and brought an entirely new set of challenges.

Now, normally, I am up for that sort of thing. I’m a rally-the-troops, let’s-do-this, we-can-think-through-this-problem sort of person. Except after spending more than a year in that mode, I have crisis fatigue. So when I had to get my seven year old COVID tested last week, our housekeeper is praying a novena and my husband can’t sleep but I just took a bath and went to bed. Because I am way past being stressed out about anything now. I figure I’ll just have to deal with the test result and the consequences whatever they are. Thankfully, Little Blue Two was negative. But the very next day, Little Blue One got a concussion, so there is no rest for the weary.

Readers, I have problems, so many problems. I know I’m not alone. But the normal respites of life to deal with them are mostly no longer available. I legit cried in the car by myself after I heard the news that the fall Met Opera season was cancelled. I know what you’re thinking—of all the sad things going on, that’s what you cry over??? Yes. Cue the privilege and ‘first world problems’ comments. Opera is my happy place and it’s closed now too. Life is just a lot of unrelenting bad news right now. So I write to forget.

But as everyone sits in various degrees of quarantine (we’re scaling back reopening and heading for a second lockdown where I live), new readers have found my Reylo stories. They must have read everything else out there, for I am assuredly the Reylo author of last resort. Well, the private messages and reviews are in and they’re not good. Here’s an example: this morning, I read a fifteen paragraph review of a fairly innocuous story telling me how horrible my characterization is and how depressingly banal it all is. The same reader told me they had read all of my Reylo and Reylo-related fics (which is a huge undertaking) so they had done their due diligence to form an opinion. Well, okay. Thanks for reading . . . I guess.

That sort of thing happens from time to time these days. It’s discouraging. Not because I have any literary delusions of grandeur, but because it sort of kills the stress release to have the stories themselves become a source of stress. Especially stories I wrote years ago and have pretty much forgotten.

I love Star Wars and I like to fill in the blanks in the history and in the characters. That’s not always pretty. Some heroes have flaws. Most make mistakes. Moreover, most of my endings are a mixed bag of happy/sad. Characters get what they want but they lose a lot along the way, or they don’t get what they want but they gain things they didn’t realize they needed, or they get what they want and realize they never wanted it in the first place. But however they end up, they are changed for the experience.

There is a common metaphor for life being a journey. I hate it. Because it implies you are going somewhere different. I guess I’m middled aged now, so life is half done. Have I gone anywhere? Not really. A lot has happened, but it seems like I have become more fully myself, in good ways and bad ways. Not that I am heading to someplace new or to becoming someone new. At this point, I know that happy endings are real, but they take effort for them to endure. And sometimes, no matter how hard you and everyone else tries, there is no happy ending. At least, not the shiny, happy Disney ending we are all conditioned to want.

It floors me just how strong the pull is for HEA. All along, my notes indicated that _Twilight of the Gods_ would follow canon and we’ve all seen ROTJ, right? We know how Vader ends. And yet still . . . people complained about my (and George Lucas’) ending. It brings home just what a novice writer I truly am because the point of _Twilight of the Gods_ is how Vader gets to that moment in the throne room and what that moment means to him. I was trying to write a redemption tale—the kind of tale I have never written for Kylo Ren—to show the meaning and the cost of that sacrifice. That really mattered to me after the mess of TROS that totally retconned ROTJ. Anyhow, that story was a bust. And maybe the answer is that the canon itself is a bust now too. I worry _Rule of Two_ is a bust in the making as well. But if nothing else, it will have relieved some of my lockdown boredom. Hopefully, some of yours as well.

Anyhow, the point is that writing is my stress release and it’s becoming a source of stress unto itself. And that makes me want to take a break for a bit. I’ll be back with more. I just need to think it through and get in the right headspace to write it. The latter might be the harder task, I fear.


	19. chapter 19

“An Inquisitor got him, Sir.”

“Dead?”

“Yes. I got close, Sir, I really did. Chased him for almost a month only to lose him at the end. It was the big Dowutin.”

Maul nods. “The Ninth Sister.”

“That thing’s female?”

“Yes.”

The hologram fuzzes out and re-forms as the transmission signal fades in and out yet again. Wherever this Jedi hunter reporting to Maul is, he must be lightyears from Dathomir, Rhea thinks. 

The man now continues, looking perplexed. “It was weird, Sir. I mean I’ve been watching this guy for weeks learning his schedule. Where he goes, what he does. Tailing him most every day waiting for the chance to nab him and make my offer. But today when I’m ready to make my move, the Inquisitor swoops in right under my nose. It was almost like she knew what I was doing. Like I had led her straight to the guy.”

Rhea watches unseen from off camera as Maul digests this unwelcome news. “Do you think they are on to us?” he probes.

“I worry they are. Maybe it was a coincidence, but it didn’t feel like it at the time.”

As Maul considers further, his man in the field says what Rhea is thinking. “Sir, if they’re on to me, then Vader’s on to you.”

Maul doesn’t react to the point. He moves on. “What about that one on Braca? That Padawan we were watching last year?”

“Sure, I can look him up. He’s our best lead right now other than those old rumors about Tattooine.”

“Nothing else?”

The man shakes his head. “There’s just not many left, Sir. There were only ten thousand in the whole galaxy tops. Those in their prime died to the clone troops. The young and the old died in their temples. And those few who escaped have mostly died to Vader’s Inquisitors. This many years out, we’re down to random leftovers.”

Maul agrees. “The ones left survive deep underground. They’re also the most powerful ones. Yoda, Kenobi, and any of their peers who persist.”

“So . . . Braca or Tatooine?”

“Braca,” Maul decides. “Don’t bring the kid here when you get him. I’ll meet you.”

“Will do, boss.”

“If the Dowutin shows up again on Braca, we’ll know we’re their stalking horse.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Be discreet.”

“I always am, Sir.”

The conversation ends and the hologram dissipates as Maul clicks his comlink off.

He looks up now to see her sitting on the couch in his office across the room. He correctly reads the worried expression on her face. “Vader doesn’t know I’m connected to this.”

“How can you be sure?” Rhea frets.

“Because if he did, he would have instructed his Inquisitor to let us bring that Jedi in. Then, they would have followed us to see what we would do with him. The Jedi would be the bait to entrap me and then likely Organa. Vader would want to bust the whole ring of Jedi smugglers, not just me.”

“You’re sure?”

Maul is very confident. “I know how Vader thinks. Plus, even in his Jedi days, General Skywalker favored ruse strategies.”

Maybe so, but still . . . “Lots of people know you hunt Jedi,” Rhea points out. “The Hutts know. So do others in the underworld. Even without directly connecting you to that particular Jedi, it wouldn’t be hard for Vader to learn what you've been up to.”

“True,” Maul concedes. “But if he does know, he probably thinks I’m an ally in his quest to murder his old colleagues. In which case, Vader probably wouldn't care. Dead is dead.”

Maul exhales with frustration now and leans back in his chair. “I need to find some Jedi to smuggle to Organa. I want to know what the good Senator does with them. For all I know, there’s some colony of Jedi refugees somewhere living anonymously . . . and Kenobi is with them.”

“How ironic that you’re the Sith who rescues Jedi,” Rhea muses softly. It’s one of the many contradictions of this man. Maul commits mortal sins, but he does small acts of mercy too now and then. Whether Maul does them with ulterior motives matters not to Rhea. The result is the same. 

Maul just rolls his eyes at her comment. “I’m helping Jedi to further my revenge, and you know it,” he complains. “Plagueis is the one doing it as a good work. He’s managing to thwart Father even as he props up the failing Light Side of the Force for his grand theory of balance.” Still, Maul appreciates the ridiculousness of it all. He muses slyly, “One Sith lord finances the rebellion to restore the Republic he conspired to take down. Another Sith lord commissions the rebel army that will fight the new Sith Empire.” 

“You are a treacherous bunch,” Rhea observes and Maul takes it like a compliment. She has a suggestion now. “You should ask Plagueis to find you a Jedi. Sounds like he might know a thing or two about where they hide.”

“That’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll even ask him what Organa does with them to see what he’ll say.”

“Do you really think he will tell you?”

“No,” Maul answers, “but I will ask all the same. There was another Force user on Alderaan. The Jedi sensed them and I sensed them as well. Organa’s in deep with the Jedi survivors, I just know it.” Maul meets her eyes steadily now. “That Senator is the best lead I’ve had on Kenobi in decades. I’m not giving up on this.”

His determined look makes her nod. “Can I help you?” she offers.

“When we catch the next Jedi, you can make the call to Organa again. I’m not giving up on this,” Maul says a second time, vowing, “I will get my revenge.”

In the moment, Maul looks as fierce as ever. All bared teeth, sharp horns, and devil red skin. But all Rhea can think as she witnesses his menace is that killing Kenobi might be a distraction from the more meaningful task of toppling his father’s regime. Killing that Jedi won’t give Maul his health back or win Darth Sidious’ esteem. 

Maul is so amazingly capable. The more Rhea sees him operate, the more she understands his diverse skillset. Because he’s a man famed for violence, few would guess that his most lethal weapon is his mind. Maul thinks and talks his way around problems far more often than he lights his sword. It makes that brute Vader on the holonet look like an angry toddler with a lightsaber by comparison. Maul’s talents are wasted on that decades old vendetta against Kenobi. Rhea fully understands why he wants revenge—she, more than anyone, knows the devastation that Jedi inflicted on Maul’s body and psyche. But still . . . Maul ought to be saving the galaxy from his tyrannical father and his masked villain sidekick. Because from what she’s seen, the rebels are a lost cause without Maul spurring them to action.

And so, she poses the question: “Is revenge more important than the rebellion?”

It’s a very serious question. Because if Jedi-loving Senator Organa learns what Maul is really up to looking for Kenobi, they will lose all credibility with the rebels. And that means Maul’s chance to lead the cause to topple his father’s regime could be lost forever. He’ll be back to ruling his empire of vice instead.

Maul sits back in his desk chair now and smiles flippantly. “You mean would I rather kill Kenobi or kill Vader? The answer to that question is ‘yes.’”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’m going to get my revenge and I’m going to retake my rightful place ruling the galaxy.” Maul rises and crosses the room to sit beside her. “I want it all, little one,” he vows. His bloodshot yellow eyes seem to glitter with intensity at the words.

Rhea knows better than to clarify whether ruling the galaxy means being the new Vader or being the new Sidious. She knows deep down Maul wants the former and he will only settle for the latter if he has to. It’s largely a theoretical question anyway. With immortal Darth Plagueis hanging around, the best Maul can hope for either way is to be the Apprentice again. But that’s still better than being an ignominious crime lord. 

She can see that the prospect of finding Kenobi has Maul energized, as does their ongoing work on the rebellion. Crimson Dawn’s boss was bored. And now that he’s back in the action again, he’s feeling focused. More animated, less sarcastic. More confident. Sometimes almost happy. Rhea likes to think that she helps some with that last part. It makes her loath to harp on the risks he is undertaking searching for Kenobi.

“I’m going to have to meet you on Lothal tomorrow,” he says as he reaches to slide her closer. “I have some business to attend to on a neighboring world beforehand in the morning. Uli’s headed that direction on the way to Coruscant. I’ll get him to drop you there in time for the meeting. Then, I’ll take you home with me when we’re done.”

“Whatever you wish,” Rhea readily agrees. 

“I don’t want you tagging along on my first stop,” Maul explains. “Things are likely to get ugly.”

Uh oh. “You’re going to kill someone?”

“I might.”

She swallows hard and nods. Violence is part of gang culture, but she’s never gotten used to it. Maul knows that and he often shields her from it. But in her other role as housemaid, she sees the aftermath often enough. By now, Marisol has taught her all she knows about cleaning bloodstains out of rugs and upholstery.

“I’ll go with Uli,” she declares.

“Good girl.”

The next day, she hitches a lift to Lothal as planned. She lands a half hour ahead of schedule, but their meeting guests have already arrived. It’s Major Draven accompanied by one of his young rebel intelligence colleagues who’s about her age. He’s fully human and his name is Cassian Andor. Overall, he’s pretty forgettable save for his pair of soulful eyes old beyond his years. Together, the two men wait on the landing pad for her to arrive.

The local Crimson Dawn lieutenant is there as well. He’s a grizzled human with a cybernetic eye and faded tattoo sleeves who everyone calls Old Archie. Archie, like the rest of the gang, thinks his warehouses full of weapons are for Maul’s new arms dealing venture. He’s been told that Major Draven is a prospective buyer here to assess the inventory. 

“Heya Rhea,” Archie calls as she disembarks and turns to wave goodbye to Uli and give him the thumbs up to take off. “The boss is incoming. He just checked in.”

It’s not like Maul to be late. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah. He just needed to settle a matter with the Hutts. They stole another shipment this week. This time, they didn’t even pretend to hide their tracks.” Old Archie spits on the ground. “Those Hutts are really gonna piss him off someday and there’ll be Hell to pay.” Crusty Archie looks pointedly at Draven and his associate. “Don’t get on the boss’ bad side. The guy is lethal. Everything people say about Maul is true.”

“We are aware,” the Major drawls.

“Good. So . . . you guys here to buy an army?”

“We’re here to see the merchandise.”

“Mercenaries?”

“Something like that.”

“Yeah, you look military,” the gang lieutenant observes of the buzzcut Major, who is currently out of uniform.

Rhea speaks up to inform Archie, “You’re getting a new shipment of munitions tomorrow. Did you get my note?”

“Yeah, I saw it. More blasters and grenades. Rhea, I’m running out of room,” he complains. “Where am I going to put that shit?”

“I’ve got a new pre-fab hangar building coming soon.”

“Another warehouse?”

“30,000 square feet,” she confirms.

“And just where am I putting that?”

“The far east corner of the landing pad.”

“Won’t be room left for anyone to land,” Old Archie harrumphs. “I used to stockpile spice, now I run a fucking armory. You tell the boss to throw a half-price sale and move some of this equipment out of here. I’ve got a run coming in from Kessel next Friday. Don’t know where I’m gonna put it.”

Rhea has an answer for that. “It’s being diverted. We’ll be keeping only the bare minimum spice here going forward.”

“Is that so?” Crimson Dawn’s local boss crosses his arms and peers down at her. “No one told me anything about that.”

“Maul’s making you the headquarters for armaments.”

That news softens the blow. Old Archie chuckles. “Well, look at me. Suddenly, I’m Darth-fucking-Vader.”

“Did the new ships arrive on schedule?” Rhea wants to know. 

“Yeah, they’re here. Wanna see? Come on,” Archie beckons and their group heads for the first of a series of warehouses.

Once inside, Draven’s young associate lets out a low whistle of appreciation. He exchanges looks with the Major. The men are impressed.

Old Archie grins and his good eye twinkles with mischief. He gestures expansively at the starfighter parked right up front. “Check it out. A real-life TIE fighter. Brand new. It came yesterday.”

Rhea frowns. “There should be four.”

“The others are in the east hangar.”

“Got it.”

As Draven and Andor look over the ship, Old Archie confesses longingly, “I so want to take that thing out for a joyride . . . ”

“You do that and you might get chased by a real TIE fighter,” the Major warns. “There’s a garrison here.”

“It’s growing by the week,” Rhea reports. “But that makes it easier to get our weapons deliveries down to the surface. Our suppliers blend in with the rest of the shipments.” 

“I hate the fucking Empire,” Old Archie curses and spits again on the ground. He looks to her. “Hey, you should tell the boss to give one of these TIEs to those rebels on Mimban so they can sneak attack the Imps.”

She shoots the local lieutenant a quelling look. “We don’t run a charity. That thing’s going to a paying customer.”

“You’re a hardhearted woman, Rhea,” Archie laments. “Don’t you watch the newsfeeds? Mimban’s a massacre in the mud.”

“This is business,” she informs him.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just all that crap about liberating Mimban from terrorists doesn’t fool me. Those guys aren’t terrorists. They owned that world. The Imps are the invaders.”

“This is business,” Rhea announces again while the rebels listening in keep admirable poker faces.

Old Archie can tell he has spoken out of turn. “Yeah, yeah, I know. . . Maul doesn’t care about politics. He cares about business. He’d sell spice and whores to ugly old Sheev Palpatine if he could.”

“Now that would be something to see,” the Major’s young colleague smirks.

Rhea moves on. “Did the speeder bikes come too?”

“Yep. When they unloaded, I thought for a moment Crimson Dawn was becoming a swoop gang.” Old Archie guffaws at his own joke. “They’re back in the corner.” Their host points to the far end of the building. 

And that’s when the sound of ion engines overhead gets everyone’s attention. “There he is,” Archie says what everyone is thinking. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, Rhea. Got to go look busy since the big boss is in the house.” He winks his good eye. “Don’t pull any pins from the grenades now, you hear?”

“Thanks, Archie,” she groans at his attempt at humor. 

“Any time, little lady.” He gives her a mock salute. Then he hurries off.

The Major’s assistant watches him go, observing, “He’s a colorful one. You all are rather distinctive.”

Rhea lifts a hand to her mangled cheek, knowing he refers to it.

Andor immediately adds, “I meant that in a good way.” He explains, “I’m a spy. I spend a lot of time blending in so I can observe people. But no one around here blends in.”

She sighs. “I couldn’t blend in if I tried.”

“You know, you’re still pretty despite the scar.”

“Yeah?” Rhea breathes before she can stop herself.

“Definitely.” The young man has a charming smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I love a woman who can talk TIE fighters and grenades,” he confides with the barest hint of a chuckle.

A comlink rings. It’s the Major’s phone. He checks the caller and excuses himself. “Gotta take this one. It will be short. Finish checking things out,” he instructs Andor. The Imperial Major who moonlights as a rebel leader now walks a fair distance apart so as not to be overheard. He leaves Rhea alone with his associate to wander further into the warehouse. 

It’s clear that Cassian Andor fully understands the charade he’s part of. Because contrary to what she just told Archie, all of what’s going on is politics, not business. The young rebel cocks his head at her and speaks in his slightly accented Basic. “I’ve heard a lot about your boss. Never met a drug lord before. Especially one with political views. He’s risking a lot for us.”

She nods. “This is extremely important to Maul.” 

“And you?”

She confirms, “For me as well.”

“How’d you get into this gig?” Andor probes as he pokes at a crate of blasters. 

“Maul selected me. I work at his headquarters.”

“What did you do before that?”

“I was in a local branch location until I was reassigned.” Taking a page out of Maul’s playbook, Rhea omits the inconvenient details about being the maid at a brothel. The rebels don’t know that the handsome uniform dress she wears now marks her for a domestic and not Maul’s sole female lieutenant.

“And before that?” Andor presses.

“I was a war orphan and a refugee living on the streets.”

“Is that where you got—??” He motions to his own cheek by way of indicating her scar.

She nods. “I was hurt and my family was killed on Ryloth during the war.”

“I’m sorry.” 

Rhea responds the way she always does to sympathy. She brushes it off. “It was a long time ago.” Even if it feels like yesterday. Those losses are still raw all these years later. Suddenly, much to her chagrin, she finds herself blinking back tears.

The young rebel notices. He steps closer now to relate, “A lot of us have sad stories like yours, only the Empire is to blame. We understand even if we don’t know the details. Ms. Cardulla—Rhea--, I know your pain. I feel it too.” 

It’s gently and sincerely said. She nods. Then, they move on. Because that’s what you do when you grieve: you hurt, you cry, you move on. Over and over again until the hurt lessens and moving on becomes a habit.

Andor keeps up his stream of questions. “What about your boss? Why’s Maul doing this?” Andor is very casual about his fishing, but they both know what he’s doing.

Rhea gives the answer the rebels know: “The Emperor had his homeworld destroyed and his people exterminated. Maul is last of his kind.”

“A witch?”

This guy clearly knows more than he’s letting on. But Rhea plays along. “That’s right. He’s one of the Witches of Dathomir.”

“A drug lord witch with a heart of gold,” Andor teases.

“No,” she corrects him. “Maul wants justice for his people.”

The spy doesn’t quibble over the semantics. “So . . . how’d he end up running spice?”

She shrugs as they move on to inspect a used hovertank. “It pays the bills, I guess.”

“It pays handsomely, I hear. Draven said his compound is something to see.”

“Maul’s a businessman and he’s very good at what he does,” Rhea volunteers loyally. Plus, she’s proud of the compound. It’s her home and she helps to maintain it.

Andor leans in close now as he whispers under his breath, “Tell me something--can he really kill Darth Vader?”

“I hope so,” she answers. 

“I was hoping for more reassurance than that.” Andor now muses, “So . . . is your boss going to show up with a pretty girl under each arm and a lit spice joint between his fingers?”

“We aren’t Hutts.” Rhea frowns at the gangster image he suggests.

Her companion grins. “I’m picturing him like something out of a Corellian rap video. Fur cape, half naked girls, a blaster strapped to his hip, some big showy chain around his neck, and a posse of aliens behind him.” He cocks his head at her. “I’m a little surprised Maul’s got a female assistant. But I guess you fulfill the pretty girl requirement.” The comment is followed by another one of those crinkly-eyed smiles.

“Cut the crap, Andor. Save those lines for your off-hours.” It’s no-nonsense Draven walking up from behind. Next to him is Maul.

“Indeed.” Maul shoots the young man a hot yellow glare before he snarls, “She’s not your type.” He snaps his fingers at Rhea and she practically leaps to join his side.

None of that exchange is lost on the young spy, who gives Maul a cheeky, unrepentant look. It earns him another glare, she notices.

“Alright,” Draven gets down to business, “Maul, what are we here to see?”

“Droids.” They follow Maul into another building filled with metal soldiers. Rhea has seen them before, of course. But each time, they provoke a shiver down her spine. She has a lot of bad memories of droids.

Draven looks over the first set of utilitarian looking KX-series Imperial security droids. He’s unimpressed. “The Empire’s got these working in the prison system. They’re only moderately effective. They’re easy to fool and terrible shots.”

“Like conscript stormtroopers,” Andor adds.

“Reprogram them,” Maul counters.

“That leads to a lot of bugs and glitches. And it takes time,” Andor points out.

“They’re not for combat. They’re for intel. They could be useful penetrating Imperial facilities to gather information. They could do it undetected,” Maul lays out his tactics.

Draven nods thoughtfully and looks to his colleague. “He’s right.”

“They look expensive,” Andor worries.

“They are,” Maul confirms. “Take one and play around with it and tell me if you want me to buy more.”

“Alright.” Major Draven gestures to Andor and the young spy steps forward to activate the nearest droid. 

“Who are you?” the spy asks the robot as it boots up.

“I am K-2SO,” the faceless mechanical man answers in his tinny speech. “Running preliminary diagnostics . . .” The droid starts to cycle through its startup protocols, narrating as it goes along.

“That’s it?” Underwhelmed Draven looks to Maul. “That’s what we came for?”

“No. Those aren’t the droids we’re looking for. These,” he leads them farther into the massive building, “these are what you came to see.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Draven gulps. A shadow briefly passes his face.

His colleague is similarly taken aback for a moment. “Roger, Roger,” Andor then remarks wryly under his breath. “For a moment there, I thought we were fighting the last war.”

“We might be,” Maul responds cryptically. Only Rhea understands. “This is what you came to see.” 

Maul starts pacing them through neat rows of modern-day battle droids. These aren’t the rough, cheap-looking mass produced models that everyone remembers from the war. These are the new and improved versions of their plenty lethal predecessors who terrorized the galaxy a decade ago. The new droids are black, not red, and extremely slick-looking. Maul ticks through their stats on shielding and firing capability, but no one is listening. 

“Where did you get these?” Major Draven looks almost aghast.

“Like them?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Bring back memories?” Maul taunts.

“Yes. Bad ones.”

“Get over it,” Maul orders brutally. “Start thinking of them as allies not enemies. They could be very useful.”

Maul now looks over to where she hangs on the perimeter. This is as close as Rhea plans to get to the creepy mechanical army. But her clear squeamishness annoys him as well. Whatever happened this morning has clearly put Maul in a very bad mood. “They’re deactivated,” he sneers at her, “They can’t hurt you. Stop being ridiculous. Quivering there like an idiot.”

“Yes, Sir.” Rhea nods, but she’s unconvinced. Because just looking at those battle droids hurts her. Maul knows that, too.

“I thought manufacturing this sort of thing was illegal,” Major Draven squints at Maul.

“It is. But as you know,” Crimson Dawn’s boss brags, “I’m a bit of a scofflaw, and I know some shady people.”

“How expensive are these?” It’s Andor again concerned about the cost.

Maul shrugs. “Less expensive than feeding and training a volunteer army. We’ll get a volume discount if we order in thousand-piece increments.”

Draven is reluctant. “I thought we agreed this was going to be the people rising up against the Empire.”

“It will be. The droids are just a small part of the force we will build.”

While the Major digests this assertion, Andor bluntly asks, “Are they any good?”

“Want a demonstration?”

“Sure.”

Maul looks like he was hoping for that answer. “Let’s take this outside then.” He activates one of the battle droids and the group troops outside to the landing pad.

“Who’s my volunteer?” Maul looks immediately to Andor. “You any good with that blaster?” His yellow eyes find the pistol strapped to the young spy’s hip in a clear challenge.

The rebel nods and crosses his arms. “I can handle myself.”

“We’ll see,” Maul smirks. He fiddles with the battle droid. “I’m setting to stun at the lowest difficulty. You’re getting a ten second head start. You’re the sole target. The program runs for two minutes.”

“Wait—now?” Andor gulps.

“You had better run,” Maul answers somewhat gleefully.

The young spy takes off just as the droid fires its first shot. Had he remained in place a second longer, he would have been hit with the stun bolt. What ensues is a cat-and-mouse game as the nimble man pulls his weapon and runs for cover first behind Maul’s ship and then behind the craft the rebels arrived on. Each time, the battle droid flushes him out with a different attack tactic. 

Maul explains the droid’s programming to Draven as they watch the action. The rebel Major doesn’t know, of course, that Maul has long experience with battle droids dating back from his Apprentice days when he helped to commission the Separatist droid army. Listening to Maul objectively explain the droid’s strengths and weaknesses makes Rhea uncomfortable. It’s not just because of her own war experience. It’s also because she knows that the army Maul had a big hand in creating ultimately destroyed his own homeworld. Like everything in his past, it’s complicated. Darth Maul was equal parts victim and perpetrator, she has decided. And Maul today? Well, now he’s sided with the good guys . . . for now, at least.

“It’s a draw,” Major Draven declares when the two-minute drill expires. “Well done, Cassian,” he calls to his underling who has fired many shots but didn’t get a hit on the elusive droid.

Sweating and winded but still standing, Andor wanders back. “That thing is fast. Very fast,” he pants. “I’d hate to see it on full strength.”

“Then watch and learn, young one,” Maul purrs. He approaches the fearsome droid himself now, calling, “Full combat mode, lethal setting, no limitations.”

“Maul!” Rhea gasps. “Sir!”

He whirls and waves her away. “Stand back. All of you.”

“But Sir!”

Maul ignores her.

Is he doing this? Is he really doing this? Rhea looks to the two rebels who say nothing. So, she speaks up again. “Sir, you don’t have to do this to impress us—“

“I’m not.” Scowling hard at her, Maul answers coldly, “Right now, I feel like killing something.”

That shuts her down. Rhea looks helplessly at the two rebels who appear more intrigued than appalled. 

As always, Maul keeps his long sword hilt set diagonal across his waist. He detaches it and holds it to the side to ignite both blades. Even at this distance, the distinctive double snap-hiss carries. 

Rhea flinches.

Draven and Andor are transfixed. 

“Oh, yeah,” the Major breathes out under his breath. “It’s on.”

Maul doesn’t take cover. He stands his ground in the open as a fierce fight commences. This modern battle droid doesn’t hold a rifle like its predecessor. Both of its arms are rifles. They fire in rapid succession as Maul begins to deflect the plasma bolts. It’s a dizzying display of swordsmanship. Moreover, this droid doesn’t just march forward and backward on land. It takes flight with a built-in jetpack like some Mandalorian.

“Holy shit, I’m glad he set it to easy for me,” Andor remarks as he watches. 

Rhea too can’t look away. Like everyone else, she is fascinated with the ‘will he survive?’ drama of the moment, except she is especially invested in the outcome. This is Maul, and the thought of losing him or what little is left of him being injured has Rhea terrified. Her heart is in her throat and she’s sure that her deep regard for her boss is written all over her face for all to see. Draven and Andor don’t notice only because they aren’t looking. For they too are engrossed.

It’s all so fast. Her eyes and her mind can’t keep up. In the moment, what happens is as much an indistinct blur as it will be long afterwards in her memory. It’s mostly a humming, buzzing, twirling streak of red from Maul’s doubled bladed sword combined with an unrelenting barrage of lethal green plasma bolts. 

Maul fights like a dancer, with graceful leaps, lunges, and dodges that when performed by another might belong on the stage. As it is, this fight feels very much like a performance. Beside her, the two men follow it with all the breathless excitement of a sporting match. The danger has them hooked.

Is this Maul’s way of establishing his prowess? Or is this something else? How long had Maul been observing her and Andor before he and Draven walked up? Did Maul somehow overhear Andor’s skepticism about whether he could really kill Darth Vader? Rhea wonders. Because this is a clear display of power and ability. A chance to show off and to earn respect. 

“Yep, those are Jedi moves,” Major Draven nods. “I remember those from the war.”

“He’s the real deal,” still panting Andor concurs with his boss. “Raddus is right—he’s our Jedi.”

They’re wrong, of course. Maul was trained to kill Jedi, not to save them like he does now. But Rhea keeps that to herself. From her youth, she remembers seeing holonet newsfeed footage highlighting the Jedi fighting on the battlefront. They swung their swords at droid attackers with impressive skills. But they never had Maul’s delight in doing so. For as she watches in dread, Maul smiles grimly at his efforts. 

He’s in his element, she realizes. Violence is his happy place. Combat is his comfort zone. Frankly, she can’t relate at all. Because she’s sweating and her heart is racing and this feels like the longest five minutes of her life. 

Once Maul has swung his sword enough, he starts throwing the battle droid around with the Force. It’s shielded, so it survives the impacts. The droid simply rights itself and resumes firing. That continues for a minute before Maul decides he’s done and attacks with a springing superhuman leap that ends with him stabbing his lightsaber down through the droid’s mechanical skull into its body. The metal man crumples into its component parts.

Satisfied, Maul deactivates his sword and strolls back to his audience. Unlike the much younger spy, he’s neither sweating nor winded. Swaggering Maul appears like he’s just going about his business and nothing exciting has just occurred. Like this is all in a day’s work and there’s nothing to see.

Relieved Rhea can finally breathe. More than anything, she wants to run into Maul’s arms. But she dares not. Besides, when his eyes briefly flit over her, they are hostile. He’s truly angry that she tried to intervene, she surmises.

The two men beside her are still picking their jaws off the ground. “Okay, they’re good. You’re good. That Jedi stuff is impressive,” Draven immediately gives praise where praise is due.

Maul nods coolly. “I’m a witch, not a Jedi.”

“Right. I’ll pretend I know what that means.”

“Take ten of the battle droids with you,” Maul instructs the two rebels. “Smuggle them to our friends on Mimban. Put them on one of Organa’s humanitarian ships on some mercy mission.”

Andor approves. “I like how you think.”

“Will Organa do it?”

The Major nods. “Bail’s a risk taker. He’ll do it. While we’re at it, can we put a few of those anti-tank missiles in with the food and medicine?”

“Take some of the surface to air ones as well,” Maul suggests. “Let’s start supplying those locals. Get some men embedded with them.”

“Already done,” Draven answers.

Maul raises an eyebrow. “Good ones?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent,” Maul approves. “Gentlemen, this will be an information gathering exercise. We’re not trying to win, so much as we are learning how the Empire will respond.”

“What do you mean?” Draven probes.

“We’re going to poke the beast and see he how he retaliates,” Maul explains. “It will tell us a lot about how we need to equip ourselves going forward. Let’s see what works and doesn’t work in the field of battle.”

“I see.” Draven nods.

“We will win by outlasting the Empire and by provoking them to greater and greater excesses. If we want galaxy-wide public support, we need to goad them into showing their worst tendencies,” Maul continues.

Young Andor bristles. “You mean we’re setting up Mimban for some war crime level crackdown?”

Maul states it differently. “We are covertly arming our kindred rebels. Because we believe in their cause and because they can teach us how to engage with the Empire going forward.”

Major Draven now puts his own spin on it. “You mean, you’re starting this war. Now. On Mimban.”

Maul smiles slyly. “It has already begun. Have you seen the newsfeeds? How proud the Empire is of its slaughter? Let’s not make it too easy on them. Let’s give them some resistance.”

“Amen to that,” Draven nods heartily. He turns to his colleague. “Let’s get this stuff loaded and get out of here.” The Major is excited and it shows. 

Maul summons Old Archie who summons the warehouse muscle. The men push one levitating crate after another into the Major’s ship. When it leaves, it is stocked to the brim with droids and weapons.

Impatient Maul doesn’t linger for further instructions once the ship takes off. He announces curtly, “We’re done. Let’s go.” Abruptly, he stalks towards his small fighter. Rhea yelps goodbye to Archie and then leaps to keep up.

As soon as they are inside the ship in private, Maul whirls on her. “What were you doing?” Before she can blink, he’s got her wrists held tightly.

Rhea squirms. “You're hurting me—“

“Answer me!” he roars. Very uncharacteristically, Maul has raised his voice. His usual high, soft rasp is plenty menacing. Its intensity makes you feel as though you’re being yelled at even in quiet tones. But this truly shouting Maul has Rhea petrified. She’s confused and befuddled at somehow having provoked him to this. Things must have gone very badly this morning with the Hutts, because he can’t be this angry about her objecting to that droid fight.

“Maul—what’s going on? You’re hurting me--”

“What were you doing before I arrived?”

“W-Whaat??”

“Tell me!”

Flustered Rhea tries to think. “We were looking at the supplies while we waited for you . . . that’s all.” Her lips tremble as she blinks fast. “Archie was there a b-bit, then he left to get back to w-work.”

“What were you doing with that young rebel?” Maul hisses in her face.

“W-Whaat?”

“That young spy!” Maul’s grip tightens and hurts again. “I saw how you were acting—you were flirting! I saw you coming on to him!”

“I was not! He was the one flirting!” At least, she thinks. Rhea has very little experience with flirting. Back at the brothel, there was little romance to the encounters she observed. And Rhea hasn’t done much flirting of her own since her high school days, and that was as awkward as it was innocent.

“You better not have been flirting! I will kill you! Do you hear me?! I will kill you!” Maul has her by the upper arms and he’s shaking her now. Like a rag doll, her head bobs and her lekku dance.

“Maul, no!” she shrieks. She’s horrified. Hurt, too. “N-No! I would n-never look at another man! I would n-never cheat on you! You know that!” The exchange today with Cassian Andor was completely harmless. She didn’t encourage it and he wasn’t threatening. It was nothing, truly nothing. She’s shocked that it has elicited this response from Maul.

He stops shaking her, but she’s still in his grip. “Do I need to leave you behind at the compound? Do I need to keep you away from other men?” 

His yellow eyes are hard and glittery. He looks just as dangerous now as when he swung his sword earlier. Except that Maul was calm and purposeful, confident in his warcraft. This Maul looks a little desperate. Like his raised voice, the marked departure from his normal controlled demeanor has Rhea alarmed. Maul seems unpredictable in a way that scares her.

“Maul—no!” she wails. “Please no!”

“I mean it! I will keep you in a cell if you make me! I’ll put a chain on you for real!” he threatens.

She can feel hot tears overwhelm her as she chokes out, “There’s no need—“

“There is every need!” he snaps. His hands shift from her arms to her throat now as he jerks her forward. Maul is not a big man but what’s left of him is pure muscle. Plus, he’s taller than her and he has the Force as well. She is no match for this man physically in a tussle. And so, Rhea is terrified as he starts to squeeze.

“Want to go to bed with him, do you? Want to sleep with a whole man? Is that it?”

She shakes her head in furious denial, unable to form the words that she cares too much to ever do that to him. Because Maul is all the man she will ever need. And because she is loyal. It’s her nature.

“Do you want to fuck him? To spread your legs and be his whore??” Maul jeers. “Want someone your own age, do you?”

Again, she silently denies his accusations. Her hands cover his gloved hands now, trying to pry open his grip. She makes no progress, and now her vision begins to blur. If this keeps up, Rhea knows she will pass out soon.

Maul has turned on her before. Berating and threatening her. But never has he physically accosted her. Each time, it’s when he’s feeling vulnerable. Because he’s revealed something or done something that makes him uncomfortable. This is a man who promised to kill her the very first time they went to bed together, after he first disclosed the full extent of his disability. And now that he feels threatened by that young rebel spy, he’s reissuing the ultimatum. And it’s silly because the only thing that man has which Maul can’t offer is his body. Rhea doesn’t care about that. But Maul does, clearly. He cares a lot.

“If I ever catch you looking at another man again, I will kill you! I will kill him and I will kill you! Do you understand me??”

He loosens his grip and Rhea can breathe, but just barely. Eyes huge, she shakes her head up and down. It splatters her tears on her cheeks.

“Say it!” Maul commands as he loosens his grip more.

“Y-Yes!” she croaks out.

“If I kill you, then I will curse you in the Force and your soul will never know peace! You will never be one with the Force, you will always remain a ghost of who you are now! I cursed Kenobi like that and I cursed his Jedi Master I killed as well. They will always haunt this life, incapable of fully leaving it. Peace is a lie for them for forever,” he snarls, “because they crossed a Sith Nightbrother.”

“Oh, Maul,” she gasps and heaves. “I’ll never leave you.” Her heart racing, Rhea throws her arms around him, trying to reassure him. To show rather than tell him how safe he is with her.

It works. She can feel his body relax as she hangs on. His words are still harsh but achingly defensive now too. “I will kill you if you hurt me! You don’t get to hurt me! No one gets to hurt me!”

“Hold me. Please just hold me,” Rhea cries into the fabric of his tunic. She’s clinging but he clings back.

“You can’t leave me. You can never leave me,” he announces.

Yes, she knows. This rejected man will not tolerate rejection. “I’m here until you tire of me,” she wails.

“I mean it. Little one, I mean it,” he insists as he begins to stroke her lekku. And now, she’s calming down as well. Her muffled sobs slow. She’s far from composed, but no longer hysterical and fearful for her life.

“You can never leave me. I won’t let you leave me.” He says it like an endearment, not a threat. 

“I know. Kill me when we’re done so I don’t have to live without you,” she sighs into his chest. She means it.

“I could never hurt you,” Maul responds.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“I know.”

And that ends the argument. His insecurity and her neediness combine to reassure them both. Because Rhea would never leave Maul for so many reasons, not the least of which is that she doubts any other man would want her damaged like she is. Guys like that rebel spy might want her for a novelty one-night stand, but they would never want her for a relationship. You don’t bring your monster-faced girlfriend home to meet your parents or show her off to your peers and pals. Moreover, Maul’s jealous possessiveness has just affirmed how important she is to him. It tells her she’s right that their affair is more than sex. 

For his part, Maul gets to rage and threaten and watch her submit, like he knew she would. He needs to assert his dominance to feel manly despite his injury. Slowly, Rhea has come to realize just how devastating the loss to Kenobi was to Maul’s psyche. From the boots he sometimes wears to hide his metal feet, to the great pains he takes to conceal the true extent of his injuries, he’s very self-conscious. In some ways, his disability is a bigger secret than his Sith background.

The temper that just flared hot has cooled. Rhea’s fear and tears subside. It’s over now and they both feel better for it. Conflicts often produce moments of truth, she is learning. For when we choose sides and state our positions, we state our wants, even if it’s indirectly. A fight is rarely about the dirty laundry left on the floor or the overspent credit card. Those are the triggers, not the cause. Underlying it all are insecurities and unmet needs, maybe also unspoken expectations about roles and the future. It’s all the hard stuff that people may not even realize about themselves or may find hard to own up to.

Rhea knows she and Maul aren’t a holonet love story. They raise red flags with their age difference and their employment context. Inexperienced as she is, Rhea also knows that your lover isn’t supposed to threaten to kill you. That sort of control shouldn’t be necessary in a healthy relationship. And no one who truly cares for you would seek to harm you. Things are supposed to be equal, with a give and take between partners. That’s what the experts say, in any case.

Except experts don’t fall in love, people fall in love. Flawed people with desires that can be as urgent as they are embarrassing. You can’t control what the heart wants any more than you can deny it for long. But can a relationship that looks toxic from the outside have good aspects as well? This one does, Rhea decides as she revels in the warmth of their reconciliation. Because as mismatched a mésalliance as her and Maul’s affair is, it fulfills deep needs for both of them. And those needs have conspired to overcome both of their better judgement. They were never swept away by passion so much as they were drawn to soothe one another’s hurts. For people who know pain can recognize it in others.

And so, a know-it-all psychologist might have a field day analyzing her and Maul. One of those loud feminist scolds might harangue her for not insisting on more power in their pairing. Anyone who witnessed that argument might also legitimately fear for her safety. But Rhea is content. In Maul’s arms is all the acceptance and validation that has been missing from her life. He comes with a lot of strings attached, but she doesn’t care.

After they take off and make the jump to lightspeed, Rhea unbuckles her seat harness and stands. She and Maul sit back to back in his cramped spacecraft. Three steps easily put her on his side of the fighter. 

He points a finger and the piloting controls retract, along with the ship’s throttle. It’s just a lot of blinking control panels now to frame the ship’s large octagonal window. Another gesture of his hand reclines the pilot seat. Maul settles in for the three-hour flight and starts unstrapping his own harness. 

Is he going to work? As usual, there are at least two datapads within easy reach. If he’s going to work, she won’t bother him, Rhea decides as she waits for his attention.

She says nothing as she lingers. Neither does he when he looks up. He just pats his lap as an invitation. Rhea climbs on. 

His voice is soft in her ear as he tells her, “Tonight, I want you to wear that Canto Bight dress and shoes for me.”

She nestles closer and offers, “How about I wear just the heels with the collar and chain?” She’ll be a slave for him alone. After today’s fight, she wants to reaffirm him in the role of master. He needs that, she is realizing.

Maul chuckles low in his throat. “Now that is something to look forward to.”

They stay there like that for the ride home. Him kicked back with one knee propped up like always. Her in his lap facing him sprawled across his chest. She holds tight and he absently strokes her back. It’s what they both need but would find it hard to admit. 

The brilliant blue eddies and swirls of hyperspace shine through the fighter’s window, casting a pallor over them both. Maul watches the strange hypnotic patterns as he broods in deep meditation. Rhea closes her eyes and dozes. Together, they might plot to consume the galaxy in another civil war, but between them, they both want peace.


	20. chapter 20

Predictably, at their next meeting Darth Plagueis stonewalls him on his Jedi questions. Curiosity earns Maul another lecture.

“Focus on the task at hand,” the towering Muun chides from his seat across the room as they conduct their monthly parley in his office at the compound. “The rebels desperately need your leadership. They are hungry for it, my Lord. Why waste your time and talents chasing Jedi?”

He fixes his Master’s Master with a hard look. “You know why.”

The Muun waves away the concern. “Kenobi is the past—“

“He’s not dead.”

“He’s as good as dead. He’s irrelevant.”

Maul digs in. “I can do two things at once.”

“You also have a business to run, do you not?”

“Three things, then.”

Old Darth Plagueis shoots him a look of annoyance. The zombie Sith abruptly changes the topic in the face of his doggedness. “I’m glad to hear that we are smuggling help to Mimban. Finally, we’re getting somewhere.”

“Does Mothma know?”

“Organa told her. He tells her everything.”

“And?”

“She was irked you didn’t ask permission.”

Maul grunts. “I’d rather beg her forgiveness.”

“She likes to act as gatekeeper for all major decisions. That one has a huge ego,” Plagueis complains. 

“Takes one to know one.” 

The Muun takes the puerile hit gracefully. “So true, so true.” He’s in a genial mood today and eager to talk. It’s like he wants to hang out casually shooting the breeze while they plot high treason. Plagueis continues: “Raddus was thrilled, of course. He can’t wait to declare an open revolt. You have a big fan in that Mon Cala.”

“He and Draven are the only ones who realize what we’re up against militarily.”

“Agreed.”

Maul tries again now, undeterred. “What does Organa do with the Jedi he collects?” 

“Are we back to that again? Move on, my Lord.”

“Indulge me.”

“Very well,” the senior Sith relents, “since you insist. For a time, Organa let Jedi live in a remote forest in the Alderaan countryside. They even built a temple.”

“Surely, that’s long gone.”

“Uhmmm . . . yes. Vader arrived and pretended it was the end of the war all over again. Close to seventy were slaughtered, I believe.”

“Good riddance,” Maul casually dismisses the bloodshed. These are Jedi they’re talking about, after all.

“It was foolish to think they could coalesce in significant numbers and not be found out,” Plagueis observes. “Organa’s a layman, so he can’t be faulted for the misjudgment. But those Jedi should have known better. That concentration of the Light was bound to attract the notice of my Apprentice.”

Maul piles on. “Alderaan was a stupid choice. It’s a Core world.”

“Yes, and one with historical significance to the Sith. Sheev cares about those sorts of things. He gets caught up in meaningless history no one alive cares about,” the undead Sith Master sniffs. 

“So where are they now?” he persists. 

“With me.”

Maul chokes. He leans forward in his seat behind his desk. “You’re serious?”

“Oh, yes.” Sly old Plagueis grins ear to ear at the sheer cheekiness of it all. “There aren’t many, I’m afraid. I let them come and go. They leave and then return to me to lie low when the Inquisitors get too close.”

Maul picks his jaw off the ground and his eyes narrow. “You’re—you—Darth Plagueis the Wise—you are keeping a colony of Jedi survivors?” The idea is preposterous since this is the man who plotted the downfall of the Republic and the Jedi Order in the first place. Except that was before he saw the Light—quite literally—and reconceived the nature of the Force and the meaning of Darkness into his current pet cause of balance. 

Plagueis is enjoying his reaction. He pulls at his scarred chin in a good imitation of a Jedi Master as he settles his sprawling self deeper into his chair. “We average between fifteen and twenty most months,” he volunteers offhand. “I’ve had a few true knights come through, but mostly they are youngsters. Little lost waifs with the Force seeking safe haven.”

“Are you training them?” Maul can’t contain his curiosity. 

“Oh, no. They have no idea I wield the Force. They think me a rich eccentric who admires their ways and feels sorry for their predicament. I let them study their craft among their brethren. I support them so that they can catalogue their knowledge.”

“Is this your balance idea?” he frowns. 

“Of course.” The Muun wags a spindly finger at him. “The Light will endure, Lord Maul, despite anything we do. So, I have decided that the best of it shall endure . . . through me.”

It’s a grandiose statement that befits the smug megalomaniac Muun. But it’s also an unsettling thought. Maul now accuses, “You’re not training them, they’re training you!”

“It’s fun, really—“

“So, you’re a Jedi now??”

The comment earns him a sharp look of rebuke. “My lord, you offend me. I am Sith, but a new breed of Sith. I will have all the power at my disposal—the Dark and the Light.” And now, yet again Plagueis launches into a diatribe on his unorthodox views. Maul only half listens, as usual.

The creepy old master manipulator is not a reformer, Maul has decided. He is a true iconoclast. In universities, iconoclasm has a benign meaning. It’s academics rethinking hoary pieties and staid conventional wisdom with a new rigor. Not so with this Muun. Plagueis is the real deal—a zealot out to obliterate the past and remake the Force in his own image. He is a prophet on a mission to cleanse the galaxy of the old truths, to destroy all that the Jedi Order held sacred and much of what the secret Sith taught behind closed doors as well. 

Sidious and Vader did the first part of the job for him, murdering Jedi in a galactic scale pogrom and desecrating their pretty temples. The pair impugned their Light Side values as well, tearing down their cherished Republic and making it their own. What gets lost is that it was all by design—by the design of the careful, patient mastermind, Darth Plagueis the Wise. Sidious might get the public credit as Emperor while Vader gets the public blame. But it is false attribution. Father is merely the implementer who coopted his Master’s aims and made them his own.

Now, Plagueis is poised to finish the job, Maul fears. On the surface, the rebellion he pushes is personal payback. It’s the vengeful Sith Master punishing his brilliant, upstart Apprentice. But it’s more than that. Two profoundly different understandings of the Dark sacred are about to come into conflict. And like all conflicts among the Dark lords of the Sith, it will be vicious combat to the death. 

Except here’s the new twist: Plagueis can’t lose because supposedly he can’t die. Maul suspects that like Mother, the Muun zombie probably doesn’t even need his corporeal form. Why does the Force allow this? Why is Plagueis permitted to endure past his natural life? For that matter, why was Mother permitted to endure for a time as well? Maul has only one answer—it’s the obvious answer—that the Force is with them both. That somehow the old ways of the Witches of Dathomir and the newfangled ideas of Darth Plagueis represent the future. 

It puts him in a terrible position. Maul either adheres to a creed he does not fully believe and betrays both Father and Father’s teachings. Or he chooses the man who raised him as a son and as a Sith and perhaps positions himself against the tide of history. 

That is a deeply troubling dilemma. Made all the worse by the fact Maul is certain that he’s not privy to Plagueis’ true plans. For a man so scheming does not reveal all to his allies. Moreover, surely Plagueis is well aware that he himself is far from a reliable conspirator. No doubt it has occurred to the Muun that he might betray him to Lord Sidious. And so, that subtext of distrust from both sides makes these meetings more a delicate mix of concealment and revelation than a true discussion. It’s made all the more complicated by the fact that he senses the Muun truly does like him. And, well, though he would never admit it, he kinds of likes the Muun as well. 

But at least, there is always Kenobi. If nothing else in life is certain, his quest for revenge remains. So, he keeps poking around for information. “How much of your Jedi activities does Organa know?”

“Very little. He learned the hard way with his first scheme that it’s best he is kept in the dark.”

“Or Dark, as it were,” Maul smirks. 

Plagueis appreciates the pun. “Yesss.”

“And this conclave of Jedi is located where?”

“In the Unknown Regions.”

“Of course.”

“It seemed both safe and fitting, since in its heyday that was the old Sith Empire,” devious Plagueis grins. 

“I want to meet these Jedi of yours.” 

The request is denied. “Focus on the task at hand. I grow tired of telling you that,” the Muun grumbles. “We digress enough—" 

“One of those Jedi could know where Kenobi hides. Maybe even the location for Yoda.”

The elder Sith shrugs. “That is irrelevant. They are irrelevant.”

“Not to me!” he hisses. He’s tired of being told to forego his revenge by a Sith Master of all people. 

That sets Plagueis off on another lecture. The Muun yet again shakes a spindly finger at him. “Lord Maul, the last thing you need right now is a rematch with Kenobi. I need you plotting a war—“

“Worried I’ll die and you’ll lose your lackey?” he challenges.

“No. I’m worried that you will get your revenge but be exposed for who you are. And then, you will never be the upstart rebel hero I plan for you to be,” Plagueis grouses. 

“But Kenobi—“

“Maul,” the Muun overrides him. His ruined face softens and his tone as well. Plagueis assumes the role of elder Sith statesman now. “My boy, I know what it is to desire revenge. I understand how important it is to you. But let us wait and see if Kenobi comes out into the open of his own accord. Perhaps a growing rebellion will tempt him out to join our cause.”

He cries foul at this possibility. “So you can recruit a Jedi Master to your personal Light Side cult? You want to ally with him! Admit it! This is one of your balance schemes.”

Plagueis equivocates. “Who knows if Kenobi will ever rejoin the galaxy? But if he does, he will join us, or die. I do not intend to let him live as an enemy.” The Sith Master reproves him now. “Think, Lord Maul, of the possibilities Kenobi might bring to the table.”

He is thinking, much as it pains him to contemplate that particular Jedi among the living. “Maybe he can kill Vader for us. He nearly did it once.”

The Munn smirks. “Lord Maul, you might have to get in line for your chance at revenge. Vader will want a crack at him too.”

“Maybe I’ll just kill the winner of that matchup,” Maul considers. “It will be a tournament of grudges with sudden death elimination.”

The Muun rolls his eyes. “Stop getting ahead of yourself. Let us see how this all plays out.” He shifts the discussion back to war yet again, telling him, “Take care to keep Organa out of the limelight on Mimban. Use some of his liberal Senator friends to conduct the mercy missions to smuggle in men and armaments. We need to keep Organa insulated as much as possible. He’s already too suspicious.”

“He’s a brave one,” Maul allows. 

“Indeed, he is. We must make sure that the House of Organa does not fall under further investigation.”

“Why? What else is Organa hiding?” he challenges.

“Bail Organa is a bridge between the factions of the rebels. If he falls, there may never be a unified movement.”

“There’s Mothma.”

“She’s more effective at giving speeches than she is at leadership. She values consensus too much,” Plagueis gripes.

“You mean she likes democracy too much,” he observes.

“Whatever.” Plagueis rolls his eyes. “The point is that we need Organa. Protect Organa,” the Muun insists. “If we need to throw down a rebel leader to Sheev’s forces, we’ll sacrifice Mothma. I would be glad to make a martyr of that one. She’d probably enjoy it.”

“Fine,” he agrees. “So . . . you are actually studying the Light?” He can’t get over that news. It’s just so . . . so . . . shocking. Bizarre, really. Father would not approve. He doesn’t approve either, for that matter. “That’s very unexpected,” Maul gives the understatement of the century. 

“Saving Jedi started as a selfish endeavor but then it morphed into a more philosophical endeavor,” Plagueis explains. 

“Why did you want to find Jedi in the first place?”

“I wanted a healer.”

Ah, that makes sense.

“Sheev mangled me even if he could not kill me. Luminous beings are we, Lord Maul, not this crude matter.” Plagueis reaches up to touch his scarred face. It’s far worse than Rhea’s, and that’s saying something. “But still . . .” the down-but-not-out Sith Master sighs, “I would like to function better.”

Maul can relate wholeheartedly to that soft-spoken lament. 

“Those Jedi healers—the Master healers—they worked miracles on cases beyond the reach of modern medicine.”

“It would take a miracle to make you pretty again,” Maul observes brutally just to take the uber confident Muun down a peg.

Plagueis does not take issue with his petty insult. He simply responds, “How you remind me of Sheev sometimes.” It is a withering insult. Maul can feel his face flush beneath his tattoos. He knows the Force reveals that Plagueis scored a hit that time. 

“If I ever find a healer, I’ll send them your way,” the Muun promises. He’s sincere. 

Maul scoffs. “What Jedi healer is going to heal a Sith lord?”

“Ah, but we are not Sith lords to them. We are valiant rebels and daring Jedi rescuers now. Why wouldn’t they help us after all we are doing to preserve their institution and bring back the Republic?”

Damn, this guy has an angle on everything. No one plots like Darth Plagueis, Maul has to concede. Shooting the Muun an appreciative look, he commends, “You are a wily Sith.”

That comment provokes a low chuckle. “There’s no other kind.”

“Mother could heal,” Maul recalls wistfully. “She was very good at it.” Mother healed his mind when it was lost from despair. She healed his heart when it was rejected and desperate. She did it with love and for love, since healing with the Force is a function of the compassionate Light. The Dark Side sustained him after his catastrophic injury. It gave him the fortitude to endure the pain. It gave him the revenge motive that kept him alive. But it could not heal him. Only Mother’s love could heal him. And even then, she could not make him whole again.

“If only your formidable mother were around now. She would be an excellent ally.” As usual, old Plagueis thinks in terms of power and strategy above all else. But Maul can only think of Mother Talzin in terms of her sacrifice for him. 

Irritated, he jeers, “Mother didn’t need her body. She manifested as a spirit for a time. She was that powerful.”

Plagueis nods. “She was a remarkable woman by all accounts. I never met her, but I wish I had.”

“She’d probably kill you,” Maul boasts. 

“She could try. More likely, she’d take me to bed if the tales are true. . .”

He takes offense. “That’s my mother you’re talking about!”

“Sheev said she was entrancing,” Plagueis recalls. 

He scowls. “That’s my mother you’re talking about!”

The Muun is undeterred. In fact, he might just be encouraged now. “All that beguiling Nightsister magic combined with an elegance of form and a rapier wit. She thoroughly intimidated him. He’d never met a woman he couldn’t control.”

“She hated him,” Maul hisses.

“For good reason. You are a good son, my Lord. We will get our revenge for Mother Talzin,” Plagueis promises. And now, the Muun has come full circle yet again with his admonitions. “Lord Maul, focus on that revenge. Killing Kenobi settles a score but it does nothing in the larger scheme of things. Humbling Lord Sidious achieves revenge and advances us both.”

Maybe, Maul thinks to himself. But then again, maybe not . . . 

Hours later, it’s past nightfall and Rhea is at his door with dinner for them both. They get about halfway through the meal, each giving the report on ‘how was your day?’ when she gives him an impish look. She’s in a playful mood. It’s just the levity he needs. And now, he’s feeding her dinner with his own fork. Then, dinner is forgotten and she’s straddling him on the couch up on her knees kissing him deeply, her arms encircling his neck. She pulls him close and tells him that tomorrow will be a better day. She’s wrong, of course, but it’s just the sentiment that he needs to hear. 

He knows he shouldn’t keep doing this, but he can’t stop himself. She’s so enticing. So willing. Rhea’s a bad habit he can’t quit and doesn’t want to end. He starts kissing and touching her and he can’t stop. He gets them both panting and worked up and he still doesn’t stop. He knows he needs to stop. But he refuses. He wants more. He’s driving them both wild with the promise of lust he cannot truly fulfill. Well, not for himself. But for Rhea things are different. She is gasping his name as she quivers beneath his touch. She’s beautiful as she reaches her climax. He loves it every time.

It feels so Dark to seduce his perpetual virgin lover. She’s untouched and yet his hands and mouth and even his horns have been everywhere. He experiences the pleasure secondhand, for tonight he’s in her mind as has become their custom. And that reflected satisfaction is something, but it’s not enough. Like always, he wants more than he gets . . . in this and in everything else in life.

Afterwards, Rhea immediately falls into a deep slumber. She sleeps on her side, those pretty lekku streaming about him as he holds her close from behind. Sleep eludes him, of course. It’s early and he has work to do. Plus, he’s far too keyed up. Lustful still and extraordinarily frustrated. 

He loves their intimacy, but it’s a doubled edged sword. Sex brings up a lot of Dark emotions that he cannot resolve. Rage at Kenobi for unmanning him, insecurity over whether Rhea will remain satisfied with him, sadness at the loss of physical consortium with the one woman he has ever cared about. Also, anger at his masochism. He did this to himself knowing full well this existential misery would be the result. But he just can’t resist Rhea’s allure. Amid a crowded backdrop of difficult, confrontational people, she’s eager to please. His life is full of complex problems, but she’s not one of them. Rhea is easy to make happy. All you have to do is give her attention. 

He has watched her confidence grow with her involvement in the rebellion. Rhea can converse and present like she’s a peer to almost any of the rebels. But her poise is limited mostly to those settings. He’s not surprised. Confidence is highly situational. 

He has yet to see Rhea assert herself in other contexts. Here at the compound, she’s the timid, helpful housemaid who everyone likes but orders around. She’s unobtrusive as she runs and fetches datapads and caf for his team, slipping in and out of rooms unnoticed except by him. In private, Rhea is as deferential as always, whether they are discussing treason or in bed together. She’s becoming bolder about asking questions now, sometimes probing ones. But she accepts his opinion and rarely questions it. It’s in Rhea’s nature to be a follower, not a leader. 

Was she born like that? Or did her experiences conspire to lower her expectations? Or maybe she just never got the encouragement she needed at the right time to kindle her ambitions? He himself was a Mother Witch’s son, stolen away when his promise was recognized at a tender age by the now reigning Sith Emperor. He was raised for greatness, groomed with every preparation in mind, with expectations now left unfulfilled. Is that legacy of failure worse than Rhea’s circumstance of never having attempted much? Is it better to have tried and failed, than never to have tried at all? 

Here he is again back where he always ends up: wishing his life had gone differently. But he’s trying now with Plagueis and the rebels. It took far more courage than he would ever admit to anyone—even Rhea—to work up the nerve to oppose Father. To try again to reclaim his rightful place after all these years. The task is daunting and Plagueis is a very unreliable conspirator. But it helps that he has his sidekick Twi’lek at his side, looking at him with trusting eyes that believe he can do anything. He is used to being feared, but lately he finds he relishes being admired more.

Damn, there’s no way he can sleep now. So he rolls away from slumbering Rhea, yanks on some clothes, and grabs his sword. He needs to kill something. But since he doesn’t have a Jedi captive in his cell currently and there are no others around deserving punishment, he will vent his Darkness on training. Again and again, he twirls his sword in his private gym, slicing through the battle droid opponents he orders by the dozens to keep him in fighting form. He needs this violence. It’s not the same as killing, but it helps. He is sweating and panting now for a completely different reason, lusting for victory in place of lusting for sex. 

He showers, works some, and then climbs back into bed. Rhea must sense his arrival, for she rolls over and snuggles close. “Mmmmm Maul,” she slurs. And that makes him smile. She wants him. That’s mostly because she has no opportunity to comparison shop. But if she’s settling for him because no one else will have her, he’s fine with that. This woman is undervalued and she doesn’t know it. Telling her won’t help because the years of curious stares and repulsed looks are too ingrained in her psyche. 

She’s damaged. He’s damaged too. But damaged is not the same as worthless. He still has plenty to offer the galaxy, just like Rhea has plenty to offer him. Someday soon, his Master will see it. Father will welcome him back with open arms and repent of his past rejections. And, if not, then Father will be punished for his faithlessness. He will lose his precious Empire and his substitute son Vader. Father will be forced to confront the Dark majesty and cunning of his spurned original Apprentice. 

He falls asleep to fantasies of confronting Darth Sidious. Of announcing the deaths of Vader and Kenobi and presenting his little Rhea. See? See?? He will be the one to do the rejecting this time. Telling his father he no longer needs his love because he has Rhea. She never belittles and humiliates him. She couldn’t if she tried. 

He overreacted on Lothal about that rebel spy. He regrets that. But life has conditioned him to expect betrayals. He’s hypersensitive on that point. It’s why he punishes disloyalty among his gang swiftly and harshly. If you’re not with him, you’re against him. Everyone knows that. But still . . . he regrets scaring her. He wants her more confident, not less.

If he had Mother’s healing power, he would take away Rhea’s injury and give her back all she has lost in life. But he can’t. Not without one of those miraculous Jedi healers Plagueis spoke about this morning. And not without searching for her probably-dead father who she refuses to let him pursue. Still. . . the inclination plants a seed. He now has yet another reason to search for Jedi. 

The next day is a busy day, like all the rest. Plagueis is correct that he’s doing the work of several men. Running the gang is a full-time job. Planning for a war is equally time consuming if it is to be done with any sense of urgency. But there are only so many hours in a day, so Maul finds himself hopping from meeting to comcall to yet another meeting in a frenetic schedule. Add in travel time for obligatory in-person visits and it makes for an exhausting pace.

It also means that he doesn’t always get sufficient prep time. These days, he’s walking into meetings cold more often than he would like. Today, he finds himself docking his fighter at the _Tantive IV_ for another rebellion meeting. Rhea is with him, of course, but he hasn’t had time to brief her. He was on an internal comcall getting details on the worsening Hutt situation during the entire flight from Dathomir. There’s barely time for a quick prep session as he and Rhea march from the ship’s hangar to the usual conference room. 

“We’re here to talk about getting organized,” he tells Rhea. “We have an army but no one to use it. There are rebel cells on systems all across the galaxy, but they don’t function as a group. Most are largely autonomous. Apparently, they like it that way.”

“So we need to induce them to change? To accept a chain of command?” she asks. 

He nods. “Draven says they need reassurance. They’re scared to be discovered. Worried that some guy four systems away will get caught and tell the Empire all he knows, implicating everyone.”

Gang member Rhea is familiar with that sort of risk. She dismisses it. “A galaxy-wide conspiracy of thousands has danger. They need to get over it.”

He agrees, but that’s not a solution in this case. “Draven sent me his plan. It’s a classic wheel conspiracy model with a hub and spoke.” 

Rhea squints at him. “Sir, what does that mean in Basic?”

“It means we all unite for the common purpose of toppling the Empire. The individual system cells act through a common leadership but do not act in concert. Knowledge of the other cells is limited to keep their secrecy.”

“So if Lothal gets busted, they can narc on us but not on Alderaan?” She uses gang slang for an informant. 

“Yes. Precisely.” Rhea is not overly educated, but there is no denying her intelligence. His girl is sharp and street smart. She’s intuitive but also analytical. Had she achieved the right credentials, there’s no telling what she might have become in a legitimate business setting. But she’s got the underworld taint now, so those opportunities are lost from a practical perspective. The upside is that she’s his forever. 

He continues, “The individual system cells function as silos and cross-cell communication is kept to a minimum. Most things are ‘need to know’ with respect to the leadership.”

She nods. She and everyone else in his enterprise understands secrecy. It is the hallmark of a well-run gang. Rhea observes under her breath as they keep walking, “You ought to know a lot about this sort of thing.”

“I do.” Criminal conspiracies are his thing. “A wheel has its advantages and disadvantages. It’s not how I choose to run Crimson Dawn. But if it gets us moving forward, I’ll gladly do it.” He’s grown tired of the disorganized rebels dragging their feet. 

Rhea thinks out loud now. As usual, she instantly gets to the crux of the matter: “You need to limit the hub to just a few people.”

“Draven wants just one.”

“No, not one. One is too risky. Unless it’s you,” she reconsiders. Rhea seems to think he can do anything, and he loves her for it. Chief among Rhea’s best attributes is her unflagging cheerleading.

But he agrees with her on the substantive point. “There is too much work for one person. It will create a bottleneck and concentrate our risk. The hub can use the same name to confuse the Empire, but it needs to be different people.”

“What do the others think?” Rhea shoots him a commiserating look. “Is this going to be another discussion full of polite disagreements? Where everyone talks but nothing gets decided? I know you hate those meetings.”

It’s true. He functions as a chief executive, and this team of rivals concept the rebels embrace is an awkward fit for his style. It tends to yield endless debates. How Father managed to persist decades as a Senator with people like Mothma around is a bit of a mystery to him now. Father is not known for his patience. 

“Draven is bringing the operative he wants to use as the hub with him today. He plans to sell us on both his idea and his candidate.”

“Whoever he is, he better be good,” Rhea grumbles. 

“He is a she. He’s calling her code name Fulcrum. Draven vouches for her on skillset and loyalty. She’s the model spy apparently.”

“Well—wait. What is it?” Rhea reads him well. Nothing gets past his girl even without the Force. 

He halts now and she does too. 

“Maul, what is it?” Concerned, she steps close. 

“Someone’s here.” His hand instinctively moves to his sword as the Force floods awareness to his mind. Someone is here, in close proximity. Someone with the Force who feels slightly familiar, but not close enough to immediately place. Still, their mental imprint is like a waft of a long-forgotten aroma that conjures old memories along with the sensation. This person—whoever they are—reminds him of Mandalore. Of a ruse that didn’t work in the waning twilight days of the old Republic.

“Who? Who’s here?” Rhea whispers with alarm. 

“A Force user. Jedi, I assume.”

She grabs for his arm. “Maul, let’s go—“

“Relax. This could be good. Let’s see where it goes.” Maybe Bail Organa has brought one of his Jedi friends with him today. That might present an opportunity to poke around about Kenobi.

Rhea is increasingly concerned. Looking around like at any minute a Jedi is going to jump out at them with a lit sword. She mutters, “I have a bad feeling about this. Maul, let’s go. Please.”

He resumes walking purposefully, telling her, “Keep your cool and follow my lead,” under his breath. He shoots her a look. “That’s an order, little one.”

“Yes, Sir,” Rhea dutifully answers. “But you keep your hand on your sword,” she retorts, sounding downright imperious. It makes him smile. Rhea gets worked up over only two things in life: the rebellion and him. Those are the sole topics for which she tends to lose her reticence and speak her mind.

“Do you know this person?” Rhea wonders, still looking around.

“I’m not sure,” he replies. A few more steps and they are at the conference room now where Bail Organa, their host, awaits outside. He’s alone. 

Rhea morphs into her lieutenant role and smoothly does the greeting for them both. Only he notices that her hand is trembling as she offers it. “Senator. Good to see you.”

“Ms. Cardulla. Maul. Draven’s waiting inside for us. Raddus is running late. We’re going to get started without him. Right this way.” Organa activates the door and ushers them into the conference room.

When they enter, Draven is on the far side of the room in deep conversation with a cloaked figure. When the Major turns, his shorter colleague does as well. It’s a Togruta woman with a blue striped head crest and tails. A familiar Togruta woman he remembers from the war’s end. 

So she lived, he thinks to himself. He didn’t expect that. 

The woman reacts fast. In one fluid motion, she leaps onto the conference room table and shrugs out of her cloak. Sinking into a hostile crouch, looking ready to spring again at any moment, the one-time Jedi Knight lights two white lightsabers of mismatched length.

“Maul.” She says his name like a snarled curse.

“Lady Tano,” he greets her coolly with the poker face he uses for the Hutts.

The Force around them fairly crackles and pops with possibilities. But most of all, with danger. The faces in the room are shocked and confused. Fear radiates especially strongly from Rhea. She’s afraid . . . for him. 

Suddenly this meeting has taken on a new importance. No one’s going to be talking about conspiracy structures now. Everyone is looking to him. Wondering how he will react. Rhea’s eyes are almost begging for him to light his sword. But he doesn’t. In fact, he makes a show of crossing his arms and declining the challenge.


	21. chapter 21

Rhea’s heart nearly stops when the woman with Major Draven suddenly jumps on the table and pulls out two lightsabers. She stares Maul down. She’s clearly Jedi, she knows who Maul is, and she’s not happy to see him. The way she says his name conveys pure contempt.   
  
“Maul.”

  
  
It’s one syllable, but it says a great deal.

  
  
“Lady Tano,” he answers.

Maul turns cool eyes on the seething, hostile woman. He crosses his arms—moving them away from the weapon at his waist--and raises an eyebrow.

“Going to tell me you were hoping for Kenobi?” the woman jeers down at him as her swords hum.

“No,” he answers calmly. “I was going to say that I’m glad you lived. Surprised . . . but glad.”

Rhea turns worried eyes on Maul as she instinctively starts backing for the door behind them. Because when it comes to fight or flight, she always chooses the latter. But without removing his eyes from the looming woman high on the table, Maul snakes a firm hand out to nab Rhea. He doesn’t want to retreat. He stands his ground. 

“I see you two know each other . . .” It’s Major Draven speaking. 

Both the Sith and the Jedi ignore him completely. 

After taking a moment to eye the fuming Togruta who has now sunk into a battle posture, Maul remarks offhand, “It’s been a minute. I thought you went down with the ship.” His voice is a casual drawl that indicates no concern at her threat.

  
  
“I almost did,” the woman hisses, “No thanks to you. A lot of clones died on that ship.”

  
  
“Which is why you survived, I presume.” 

“They were good men. Acting under control of your old Master,” the woman retorts.

  
Wary Rhea casts her eyes about the room. Major Draven and Senator Organa look from the Jedi on the table to Maul and then back again. Neither knows what to make of the situation. Clearly, this wasn’t some sort of trap. The rebel leaders look as shocked as Rhea is at the tense standoff. No one saw this conflict coming. 

  
  
Maul still hasn’t pulled his own weapon, Rhea notes with growing concern. It’s not like him to walk away from a provocation. His reticence must be purposeful, she decides. So she attempts to gulp back her fear and trust in his judgement. What happens next is very important. For Maul, for her, for the fledgling rebellion, and for the galaxy.

  
  
With all eyes on him, Maul now elegantly requests them all to get out. “May we have the room please?” He shoots Rhea a quick glance and adds, “You too,” as he squeezes her hand for reassurance. 

  
  
It doesn’t help. Because does he want rid of them because in close quarters the coming swordfight will cause collateral damage? Now, Rhea is really worried. “I’m not leaving,” she whispers back. 

Her voice must carry above the buzzing lightsabers because Major Draven nods his agreement. “I’m staying too.”

  
  
The aggressive Togruta endorses this view. “No one leaves,” she announces. “Everyone needs to hear this.” Turning a scowl on Maul, she demands, “What are you doing here?”

  
  
The confused Draven answers. “He’s building our army. Maul has been tasked to stockpile weapons and supplies for us at his bases.”

  
  
“Maul is your guy in the underworld?” The Jedi woman is incredulous. Eyes wide and jaw dropped. “This is the spice guy? Darth Maul??”

  
  
Heretofore silent Bail Organa is aghast. “Darth??” the Senator chokes. “Did she say Darth?” he looks first to Draven and then to Rhea in flustered alarm. 

  
  
“Yes, Darth.” The Togruta confirms.

  
  
“Not Darth,” Maul complains with a heavy sigh and rolling yellow eyes. “I haven’t been Darth since about the time you were born. Which, of course, you know.”

  
  
“He’s one of us? That’s what you’re telling me?” the Jedi demands of the Senator.

  
  
“Well, yes.” Bail Organa shifts his weight. “At least, I think so . . .”

  
  
“He’s a Sith!” she hisses.

  
  
Now, it’s Maul’s turn to scowl. “I’m no more a Sith than you are a Jedi,” he asserts. “We were both thrown out, were we not?”

  
  
“I left! I was reinstated and then I left!”

  
  
“You left in disgrace,” Maul snaps. “But I commend you. You saw that those fools on the Jedi Council had lost their way. You knew they were beholden to a too tenured grandmaster who somehow overlooked a Sith lord in the Chancellor’s office. Yoda was too busy mentoring Darth Sidious’ budding young Apprentice hidden in their midst to notice that phantom menace.”

  
  
The woman is on the defensive now. She shrieks, “That vision—that vision you claimed on Mandalore—it was a lie!”

  
  
Rhea and everyone else in the room isn’t following, but the two Force-users don’t seem to notice. It’s like they are the only two people in the room as they tangle with words as a prelude to swords. 

Maul now practically purrs, “Search your feelings, Lady Tano, and you will know it to be true.”

  
  
“It’s a lie! What game are you playing?” the woman demands as she stalks forward. She perches tall on the end of the table and lifts her longer sword to poise at Maul’s throat. 

  
  
He doesn’t so much as flinch.

  
  
But Rhea does. Suddenly, she is far less concerned that Crimson Dawn stays on the good side of the rebels than she is that Maul gets out of this alive. So, worried for where this is going, she steps forward and opens her mouth. It’s a rare show of self-confidence motivated by concern for Maul. “Stop it! Stop it now!” she orders to the Jedi. “Put those swords away! He is unarmed!”

  
  
“I’ve seen what he can do without a weapon—“

  
  
“Turn those off and let’s talk this out like reasonable people!” Rhea screeches. Her voice is vehement even if her lips are trembling. She darts pleading eyes to Bail Organa hoping he will take the hint to intervene. “The past was a long time ago and much has changed,” Rhea maintains.

  
  
The Togruta ignores her. “What game are you playing, Maul?”

  
  
He shrugs. “Treason. Rebellion. Liberty and justice for all. That sort of thing. It’s the same game you’re playing.” He smirks up at her. “I told you years ago on Mandalore that we should join forces to defeat the Sith. That whole last stint on Mandalore was a ruse to kill Darth Vader before he outed himself and began his purge—“

  
  
“He is not Darth Vader!”

  
  
“—but your Master sent you instead while he went to kill Dooku and become the Apprentice—“

  
  
“You lie! You lied then and you lie now! He is not Darth Vader!” The Togruta woman is adamant.

  
  
“Now, years later, the Force has managed to bring us together despite your refusal.” Maul makes a convincing smile as he nods, “This is good. This is very good. Search your feelings and open your mind to the possibilities.”

  
  
“I’ll never join you!” the Jedi woman disavows. She keeps her sword poised at his throat. It’s way too close for comfort. And since Rhea is standing next to Maul, she takes a long step back.

  
  
“Oh, but you already have. Don’t you see?” Maul goads her. “The Major just told you—we’re all on the same side now.”

  
  
“No! I’ll never join you!”

Rhea is uncertain what to do as her eyes dart from one combatant to the other. Why doesn’t the Senator intervene? He’s the ranking rebel in the room. Bail Organa needs to do something. Rhea always knew that Maul’s Sith past posed a risk of ruining his plans. Suddenly that risk has come to fruition. Things feel like they are unraveling before her eyes. She fears for where this will lead next.

  
But Maul is calm as he intones, “The Jedi Order turned on you . . . your Master turned on you . . . I know it’s hard to accept. My Master turned on me as well. I know that pain, Lady Tano. I have lived it. But you must face up to who he is now. He is Darth Vader and he must be stopped.”

  
  
Major Draven is confused. “Will someone tell me what’s going on? You were supposed to be a witch, not a Sith,” he accuses to Maul.

  
  
“He’s both,” the Jedi confirms. “He’s Mother Talzin’s son and Darth Sidious’ Apprentice. Didn’t he tell you? Before there was Vader, there was Dooku. And before there was Dooku, there was Maul. Darth Maul.”

  
  
“What have we done?” the Senator gulps, looking across to Draven in dismay.

  
  
The Major crosses his arms. “Ahsoka, turn those swords off. Rhea is right. Let’s talk. I’d like to hear the facts before we jump to conclusions.”

  
  
“Yes, please,” anxious looking Bail Organa requests. “I’d like an explanation,” he orders to Maul, “but I forbid violence.” He shoots the Jedi a pointed look.

  
  
Rhea nods emphatically too. In any other setting, if someone pulls a weapon, Maul meets that aggression with immediate deadly force. This is not a man who backs down from conflict. As a rule, he refuses to be intimidated. That’s why watching him attempt to talk his way out of this standoff has Rhea very worried. Regardless of what the Senator says, she’d feel a lot better if Maul had a lit sword in his hand right now.

But Maul keeps playing it cool, standing down but standing his ground. He’s making the Jedi woman look like the unreasonable one, Rhea realizes.

“Ahsoka?” the Senator prods with a hard look.

  
The Togruta deactivates her swords, but remains atop the table. She’s keeping the high ground, Rhea notices. The Jedi is very sure of herself. With her lifted chin and her upright carriage, she fairly radiates confidence. It’s the moxy Rhea wishes she herself had. Does that come from being a demigod born with the magical Force? Or does that come from being raised from infancy to believe that you are special? Because this woman, like the other Jedi woman Rhea met on Nal Hutta, seems like she can handle anything. 

“Well, Maul?” the Senator prompts. “We’d like an explanation.”

  
“Lady Tano here freed me from Republic custody at the war’s end,” Maul begins.

  
  
“You were a diversion!”

  
  
He nods. “The purge had begun and the clones were after her. I helped her escape.”

  
  
“You did not!”

  
  
“I was the diversion you wanted, was I not?” In contrast to the woman’s taut face and loud accusations, Maul is even tempered. Almost as if this were a friendly conversation swapping war stories about the good old days and not a trial of his merits.

  
  
Maul flashes a rare grin and cajoles, “Admit it, you were hoping the clones would kill me instead. So you freed me without a weapon with an entire legion chasing me. That was badly done, Lady Tano,” Maul chides. “Not sporting at all. There you were with two sabers just like now, and poor defenseless me with none. Not very Jedi-like of you.” He shakes his head at her in mock reproof.

  
  
“I see the rumors are true and you survived anyway,” she responds bitterly.

  
  
“I’m a hard man to kill,” Maul brags. “And there are no rumors. It’s no secret that I survived. I have lived in the open all these years. Whereas you have been in hiding, I presume.”

  
  
“Why aren’t you dead?”

  
  
“I told you. I’m a hard man to kill. Where have you been? With Kenobi?”

  
  
“He’s dead.”

  
  
“Liar,” Maul accuses casually and the woman doesn’t deny it. Her flushed cheeks are a silent admission of guilt.

  
  
She starts in on her denunciations again. “This man was a Sith! He is the enemy! He cannot be trusted!”

Maul smirks. “Haven’t you heard? The enemy of your enemy is your friend.”

“Not necessarily,” the woman retorts. “He might just be another enemy.”

  
“Maul’s going to kill Darth Vader for us,” Draven points out. “That’s sort of a hard position to fill these days—“

  
“Is it true? Is the Emperor your Master?” Bail Organa interrupts. “Are you Darth Maul?” he asks point blank.

  
  
“Not anymore.” Maul holds the Senator’s gaze as he answers. “I was never Sith by choice. The Sith took everything from me. Ripped me from my mother’s arms, murdered my brother, murdered my mother, destroyed my homeworld, used me as a weapon, and then cast me aside. They abandoned me after I served their purpose, and then I was replaced.” His words drip with bitterness. Their intensity is uncomfortable even for Rhea who already knows the tale.

Yellow eyes revert to the Togruta now. “Parents used to voluntarily surrender their children to the Jedi. But Mother never surrendered me. I was ten years old when Darth Sidious tricked her and stole me to raise me as his Apprentice.” Maul’s gaze narrows on Bail Organa now as he whispers, “Do you know what a Sith lord does to a groom a Force-strong child?”

Suddenly, the Senator looks very uncomfortable. “I can imagine. I have imagined . . .” he says vaguely.

“I was gaslighted from the first day. Told I was chosen, not stolen. That I should be grateful for the opportunity to serve the future Emperor. I believed it. I was ten! Only much later did I realize that Sidious took me to make me his ally.”

“Because he feared you would become a threat to him,” Bail Organa answers immediately, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

“Precisely! He had a plan. Darth Sidious always has a plan.” Maul’s eyes dart back to the Togruta. “Tell me, how is your old Master? Since we’re bringing up ancient history, does everyone here know who you are to Darth Vader?”

Bail Organa really looks uncomfortable now.

  
“That vision was a lie!” the woman howls. 

“Lady Tano here was the Padawan to the Jedi Knight who became Darth Vader,” Maul announces.

  
  
“That’s a lie!”

  
  
“So, you see, if my past training calls my motives and allegiance into question, then so does yours,” Maul reasons. “For I am not the only one who in my formative years was close to a Sith lord.”

  
  
The woman poses with her hands on her hips and sneers, “No one ever called me Darth.”

  
  
“We could do it together, you and I,” Maul makes his pitch. “I imagine his fighting style has changed to accommodate his injuries, but you know his every move and tactic. Like every good master, Vader taught you all he knew, right?”

“It’s never been proven who Darth Vader is!” the Jedi woman continues her denials. 

  
  
“Come, come, my old friend. We both know he is—“

  
  
“Sorry I’m late.” The door now opens to admit the latecomer Raddus. He takes in the dramatic scene. “Ahsoka? Why are you on the table?” The Mon Calamari blinks his huge, expressive eyes up at her. “What did I miss?” he grumbles.

  
The Jedi responds with an accusing finger pointed at Maul. “This man is a Sith lord! He has infiltrated our cause and will betray us!”

  
“He’s not a Sith, he’s a witch. Right?” The big fish man looks to Maul.

  
“Right,” he confirms. “Tell them, Lady Tano. Tell them from whence I hail.”

  
  
“He’s from Dathomir. His mother is the head witch of their local cult.”

  
  
“Mother was the head witch. She’s dead now. The Emperor killed her. She died saving me from his rage. But he and Dooku had already overrun Dathomir and committed genocide of our kind. Like they did to your people,” Maul looks pointedly at Raddus.

  
  
“Your brother was Dooku’s Apprentice!” the Jedi alleges. 

Senator Organa looks to Maul with raised eyebrows.

  
  
“That’s true,” Maul nods back at him. “It was Mother’s ruse to get close to Sidious and Dooku so we could kill them. But the ploy failed. The Emperor killed my brother. Then Sidious did his best to wipe the Witches of Dathomir from the galaxy. We were the first purge, Lady Tano. Before your Jedi brethren were marked for execution, the Sith slaughtered my people.”

When she says nothing, Maul continues. “He used us—first me and then sad Sister Ventress and even poor Savage—as tools to achieve his aims. Once Sidious got what he wanted, he destroyed us all. Lady Tano, you are not the only one disillusioned and chagrined for having followed a faithless Master. Along the way, we were all duped by Darth Sidious.”

Is he merely playing to his audience? To Rhea’s ears, it sounds like Maul fully believes what he says. And maybe he does, but he also loves his father still. And that love keeps him trapped and ripe for manipulation, she fears. Still, his participation in this rebellion—however it turns out—is a huge step forward for Maul. An attempt to confront his father and remake his future as something other than a loser in the power plays of the Jedi and the Sith.

  
  
“So, you’ve seen the Light? Is that your tale?” the cynical Jedi purses her lips.

“Oh, no,” Maul purrs. “I’ve seen Darkness. Darkness like you cannot begin to fathom. It’s how I know Vader and the Emperor must be stopped. This is a political cause for you, but it is a personal quest for me.”

  
  
“Let me guess—you want revenge?” she nods knowingly. 

  
  
“I want a reckoning. Call it revenge, call it justice, call it closure, but I will bring Vader and the Emperor to account for their actions.” Maul holds forth a gloved hand now, much to the Jedi’s obvious discomfort. “This time, will you join me?” he practically coos. “With your Light and my Darkness united, we will be formidable when we face them.”

  
“I’ll never join you!” is his answer.

  
  
Gruff Raddus says what the other men are thinking: “I don’t understand. What does all this history mean? What’s really going on?”

  
  
“It means he will betray us. He cannot be trusted,” the Togruta on the table concludes. 

  
  
Draven looks unconcerned. “We got past his current day job and past his Mandalore antics. Mothma’s okay with it,” he shrugs. “Plus, we have no evidence that Maul is disloyal.”

  
  
“He’s been a great asset,” Raddus chimes in. “He’s hiding our fledgling army at his spice gang bases.”

“How convenient,” the Jedi woman is sarcastic.

Maul starts asking the questions now. “What is it you do for our effort?” he demands of his accuser. 

Draven answers for her. “Ahsoka runs intelligence missions for me. She’s a go-between for our cells in the Rim.”

  
  
“I see. She’s a good choice for that,” Maul decides.

  
  
“And she has done her part in assisting surviving Jedi,” Bail Organa speaks up. 

  
  
“Mostly, I have been helping to hide Force sensitive children from the Empire,” the Jedi volunteers.

  
“An admirable task,” Maul approves.

  
  
“They’re killing them mostly,” the Jedi woman laments. 

  
  
“Naturally,” Maul observes, “because their potential makes them a threat. It’s the same reason Vader purged the Jedi and Dooku murdered the Nightsisters. They—like us—present an existential threat.”

  
“Then why are you still alive?” she challenges.

  
  
“You know why.”

  
  
“Because you are their secret ally!”

  
  
“No. Because I am misjudged to be a very minimal threat.” 

Does everyone realize how humbling that statement is for Maul to admit? Rhea does.

  
  
The Jedi frowns. “I’ve seen what you can do.”

“So have I,” Draven concurs.

  
  
“Thank you for that,” Maul acknowledges, “but the Emperor and Vader do not share your appraisal. And since I do not openly oppose them, I am tolerated. You, however, will not be tolerated. Watch yourself, Lady Tano. Vader will not want reminders of his old life.”

  
  
“My Master is not Darth Vader!” she huffs.

  
Maul gives her a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am.”

  
  
“How did you come to be one of us?” she asks, immediately changing the subject.

  
  
“Venamis recruited him,” Draven volunteers. 

  
  
“You know the prince?” The Togruta looks to Maul. 

  
  
“We go way back,” he assures her. 

  
  
“No one has more credibility around here than Venamis,” Bail Organa reminds everyone, in what surely must be the most ironic of the deceptions afoot. Darth Plagueis plotted the downfall of the Republic and the Jedi Order in the first place. But only she and Maul know that. The Senator now lauds, “Prince Venamis has been a silent partner since the very beginning and a savior to many Jedi.”

  
“This is good,” Maul again tries to cajole his angry foe perched on the table. “This means the Force is with us. When people from differing backgrounds and diffuse creeds come together in furtherance of an idea, they are powerful. This is the essence of the Republic. Lady Tano, come down from there. Let us forget the past and work for a better tomorrow.” Again, he offers his hand in a show of magnanimity.

She jumps down but shakes her head. “I’ll never join you,” she nearly spits. “Senator, a word if you please.” She nearly propels the much taller, broader Bail Organa from the room. 

That leaves Rhea, Major Draven, and Raddus all looking to Maul in confusion.

“Will someone please tell me what the Hell just happened?” Raddus blusters to break the silence. 

The rebel spymaster Draven too looks irked. “Great, just great.” He kicks viciously at a chair to vent his temper. “We came here to devise a plan for more unity and see what happens?? Maul has moved us farther forward in six months than in all the years of planning that preceded him. But now we’re back to second guessing him. We’re wasting time,” he complains, “while people die on Mimban.” 

Rhea looks from the exasperated Major Draven to scowling Maul and decides she has been silent long enough. She rushes through the doorway and follows the Senator and that dismissive, unforgiving Jedi. 

“Wait!” Rhea hollers with an authority that surprises even herself. 

The pair pauses and turns. 

Pulling herself up to her full almost-five-foot height, Rhea brazens her way forward to meet them. Then, she confronts the Jedi. Taking a page out of Maul’s tactics, she endeavors to keep her voice steady and calm even as she trembles at her daring. Hopefully, everyone will think she is trembling with outrage and not with anxiety. But this is too important to Rhea for her not to intervene. 

“You’re asking us to throw away many months of work and millions of credits. You know that, right?” she begins.

The woman nods coolly. “We can’t work with Maul. He’s a Sith.”

“Stop that!” Rhea instantly objects. “Stop hurling accusations and condemning him with labels! Ugly labels with connotations that everyone here understands even if the rest of the galaxy does not. It traps him! You won’t allow him to be anything more than what he was thirty years ago! It’s like you refuse to admit that people can grow and change. That their views can evolve and who they were or what they said decades ago might not reveal who they are today.”

The Jedi woman looks impatient to be away. She simply announces, “Never trust a Sith.”

Rhea is truly angry now at her stubborn righteousness. “You know who told me that? He did! Look Lady-whoever-you-are, you know—like we all know—that the Emperor and Vader will not be easy to beat. But who better to beat them than someone who knows exactly how they think?”

“The Sith are never what they seem. He’s using us!”

“Where’s your proof of that?” Rhea demands hotly. “He’s put his entire organization at risk for this rebellion. There’s a lot of us in Crimson Dawn depending on him—“

“Yes, and you, like us, are his tool for revenge,” the Togruta concludes. She is determined to believe the worst, of course.

“Does it matter why he wants to topple the Empire?” Rhea challenges.

“Yes. It matters that we do it for the right purposes. Or else we might start a civil war and kill people for nothing!” The Jedi crosses her arms and looks down her nose at Rhea. “We did that already in the Clone Wars. I refuse to do that again.”

“Because only the pure hearts among us are worthy? Is that it?” Rhea snaps. Her resolve to remain calm and reasonable is lagging. She’s getting a little shrill now, but she can’t help it. “The past is never the past if we don’t allow people to move forward! Maybe he doesn’t measure up perfectly to your Jedi standards. Maybe he has said things and has done things what were wrong—very wrong—but he can still be the right man now. Give him a chance!”

“I didn’t hear him accepting responsibility. And I didn’t hear any statements about how he plans to act going forward,” the other woman points out. 

She’s right. Rhea knows that Maul is unrepentant for his past. He’s not sorry for what he did, he’s just sorry it didn’t work out like he wanted. He ended up the victim, not the victor. But still . . . Rhea firmly believes that whatever his past crimes, Maul is doing the right thing now. And given some encouragement, acceptance, and success, who knows what great things Maul will be capable of? He has all the preparation and ability to be a leader beyond just his gang. His father groomed him to be at the forefront of the galaxy all those years ago.

The Jedi woman knows she has scored a hit. She waits expectantly for Rhea’s answer.

So she counters, “If he said those things—would you even listen? Would you accept them?” Rhea raises her chin with indignation. “What’s the point of Maul humbling himself if you’re only going to condemn him further? So you can smugly flog the reformed sinner and feel good about yourself for it?”

Bail Organa objects to this characterization. “Ms. Cardulla—“

She overrides him. “Senator, maybe Maul’s failings weigh against him, but don’t let them weigh against us too. Let’s stand on his shoulders, and use what he can teach us to make a better future for everyone. You need him to build a rebellion that will succeed. Maul has the skills to lead—and to win!”

“You’re asking us to ally with a Sith lord-turned-criminal mastermind? To entrust the future of the rebellion and the lives of thousands to him??” The Jedi woman is incredulous at the very thought.

Rhea now reminds Bail Organa, “Senator, you and the others knew who Maul was when he joined up.”

“I knew he was in organized crime. I never knew he was a Sith. That changes things. Surely, you can see that,” the very reasonable Bail Organa reasons.

“Two weeks ago, he helped you save a Jedi who the Hutts gifted to him to kill! Does that sound like something a true Sith would do?”

The astute Togruta woman answers, “He might. To fool us.”

Rhea argues back, “You’re missing the point—he saved that woman’s life! And it sounds like he might have helped to save your life once too.”

“Hardly. I saved myself,” she scoffs.

Whatever. Rhea starts grasping for anything now to convince them of Maul’s bona fides. “He’s trying to save another Jedi. Some kid on Braca.”

“Yes?” The Senator is interested. 

“You should talk to him about it. Maybe you could help. He tried to save another Jedi this week but an Inquisitor got there first and killed him. Some Ninth Sister person.”

“The Dowutin?”

“I guess. I don’t know the details. But the point is to let Maul’s current actions speak louder than his past missteps. Give him a chance,” she pleads, looking to the Senator.

The Jedi woman shakes her head. “Maul isn't redeemable.”

“Who are you to decide that?” Rhea nearly shrieks with outrage.

“Some people are too dangerous, too treacherous, too guilty to get a second chance,” she responds. Because apparently being a Jedi makes her the prosecutor, judge, and jury in the matter of Darth Maul. 

Rhea fumes. This is just like those idiots on the Jedi Council who thought that assassinating the secret Sith lord Chancellor—the longtime, duly democratically elected secret Sith lord Chancellor—was a good idea. Because despite all the Jedi’s public talk about the Republic values of due process and transparency, they felt very comfortable dispensing with those hindrances when it came to the Sith. Moreover, the hypocrisy of it all eluded them. They probably thought they were doing the right thing, Rhea suspects. Because, of course, they were Jedi Knights and they got to decide for everyone, including themselves, what was right and wrong. And no one could question them. 

“This is a matter for the leadership to decide, Ahsoka,” Bail Organa finally inserts himself. “This is far from settled, but with swords drawn—“

“Only her swords,” Rhea says acidly.

“--it seems best to adjourn for now.”

“Maul isn't redeemable,” the Jedi repeats stubbornly. “Bail, surely you can see that. The Dark Side makes you a monster!”

That blanket, sweeping statement sets Rhea off. “You know, that attitude—the one where you get to decide things for the rest of us—is part of why people by and large accepted the Jedi purge. Because they blamed the Jedi for the war and they were tired of the Jedi’s preachy ways. You’re so holy and perfect,” she jeers. “Only out for the universal good. Held up as examples for the rest of us to emulate. Except you failed us all! You watched a Sith lord take over the Republic after he rose to power right beneath your nose! And my family died because of it!”

“Ms. Cardulla—“

Again, Rhea speaks over the Senator. But she’s close to tears and she’s determined to make her point before she loses her composure completely. Or loses her nerve to say it. 

“When the Jedi Order fell, plenty of ordinary people quietly gloated on the sidelines. You know that, right? Because the measure you use is the measure you will receive. In the end, the Jedi were no different than us laypeople—you were fallible! For all your fancy Force and good intentions, you too could make mistakes. Big ones!”

In this, apparently, the Jedi woman will not argue. She quietly concedes, “The Jedi Order made mistakes. It needed reform. But this isn’t about the Jedi. It’s about Maul.”

“Give him the chance to prove you wrong. You need him!” Rhea wails.

“We don’t need his kind of help,” she sniffs.

“Who’s gonna kill Darth Vader, huh? You? Are you prepared to kill your old Jedi Master?” Rhea goes there, even though she knows she shouldn’t.

The Togruta looks ready to pull her sword again. “He’s not my Master! My Master is dead and this galaxy is the worse for it.” She looks ready to cry now too. Except Jedi don’t cry. They don’t need emotion like the rest of us little people, Rhea knows. 

“What if he is? Could you do it?” she goads. “Because I don’t think you could do it.”

“We don’t have to listen to any more of this. Let’s go call Mon.” The Jedi again begins to bustle away the Senator. “We need to talk to Mon.”

“Go ahead! Walk away! Run away!” Rhea calls at their backs. “He holds your entire army, by the way! And he knows who you are and where you are. Don’t give him a reason to betray you to the Empire. Maul doesn’t handle rejection well. You reject him at your own peril!”

“Rhea, that’s enough.” It’s Maul’s high tenor rasp. The one just above a whisper that still manages to carry to everyone’s ears.

Instantly, she backs down. She begs Bail Organa’s pardon now. Casting her eyes downward, contrite Rhea tells him, “Forgive me, Senator, if I spoke in anger. I had no intent to offend, but I am proud of the work we have done for the rebellion and I want it to continue.” The words are said with a formal grace that would make her dead mother proud. She looks the maverick Senator in the eye and promises, “Maul is not a monster. Statements like that are extremely unfair,” she glares at the Jedi.

The Senator nods slowly and looks even more troubled. Clearly, he doesn’t know what to think.

Rhea can’t bring herself to be equally gracious to the fuming Jedi. She shoots that Togruta a dirty look. The kind of look that in gangland would make a girl know to watch her back. Because Rhea might not be acknowledged as Maul’s girl, but she’s a ride-or-die chick all the same. And she will not listen to her boss be disrespected by anyone, least of all this Jedi woman with a grudge. Rhea might look meek, but she is Crimson Dawn and she’s got people all over the galaxy that will have her back, whether or not they have a lightsaber. By and large, they are good people too. Even though this lady would likely dismiss them as trashy criminals.

So Rhea gets up in that Togruta harpy’s face and hisses, “Do not underestimate us,” as she flashes the gang sign on her wrist. In an effort to prove that she’s not intimidated by this very intimidating woman, Rhea lapses into street vernacular. She emulates other tough talking women she has met in the gang. “Bitch, listen up! We know more than we say, we think more than we speak, and we notice more than you realize. So back off, you Force ho! Quit ruining things with your judgy big mouth! We’ve got a good team here. We need to keep it together and fight the Empire, not ourselves! And Maul doesn’t have to prove loyalty to you. He knows all about loyalty. Crimson Dawn is built on loyalty,” she boasts with a swagger that she hopes will do Marisol and Mrs. Nettles back at the compound proud.

“Come, Rhea.” Maul beckons from where he has been standing, observing the confrontation.

“Yes, Sir.” With one last seething glare at the Jedi, Rhea comes quickly to his side. 

Maul pulls up his cowl and settles it low. He’s extra menacing looking that way. Following his example, Rhea fluffs up the hood of her fancy Alderaan style day dress and settles it atop her head. Does the Jedi woman know how many credits this dress cost? She hopes so. Eat your heart out, she thinks to herself. She’s got the good side of her face showing in profile to the rebels as she and Maul march to their ship in a dignified huff.

As Rhea climbs up the ladder to board, Maul snickers from below. “Did I hear right? Did you call her a Force ho?”

Did she do that? In the stress of the moment, she might have. Rhea cringes as Maul climbs up behind her. It’s just the two of them inside the privacy of his ship. “I guess . . . uh . . . I might have . . . maybe . . . oh, gosh, I hope not . . . ”

Maul’s face twists in a wry smirk. “Mother Talzin would approve.”

Rhea reddens beneath her green skin. “I got a little carried away, I guess . . . I’m s-sorry.” She slumps dejected into the copilot seat and moans, “Everything is ruined now anyway. Your past caught up with us.”

“It’s too soon to conclude that. You were right to point out that I control their entire army. Little one, you are my best advocate. That was a most authentic testimonial.” Maul marvels, “Who knew you had such ghetto bluster?”

Rhea responds by putting her face in her hands. She is mortified by what just happened. “Don’t say any more . . .”

“And who knew I was such a paragon of virtue and repentance?” Maul shakes his head and chuckles even though there’s nothing remotely funny about the situation. “Called her a Jedi ho . . . “

“Force ho,” she groans.

“That’s even better. Rhea, I think I love you.”

“It won’t happen again. Sir, I promise.”

“You’re supposed to respond ‘I love you too.’”

“Yeah, okay. Whatever.” She bursts into tears.

“Rhea, look at me.”

She drops her hands, looks up, and sniffs, “Y-Yes?”

“I think I love you.” Bloodshot yellow eyes lock with hers.

“I love you too,” she answers back without thinking. But this isn’t the time for declarations. She is very upset about what just happened. “Can you get Darth Plagueis to fix this?” 

“He controls their credits.”

“Will that be enough?” she frets. 

“Let’s hope. I guess we’ll find out whether he still needs us or not if he sticks his neck out for me.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” she grumbles.

“Ah, but little one,” Maul counters softly, “rebellions are built on hope. Foolish, romantic, idealistic hope for a new fresh start that will wipe away the past . . .”

Is he talking about himself or the rebellion? Rhea isn’t sure. “You don’t seem anywhere near as upset as I am about this,” she frowns.

Maul shrugs with an indifference that befuddles her. “This was bound to come out eventually. Better now than later, I suppose.”

“And if we get kicked out of the rebellion for it?”

“We’ll fight the Hutts instead of the Empire.”

“You don’t want that!” she lashes out. “I don’t want that either! Don’t pretend this isn’t huge, Maul—for you, for me, for the galaxy!”

“It is huge,” he sighs and looks away. He pulls a gloved hand down his averted face and for a moment looks truly rattled. “It’s everything.”

She nods and wipes at her eyes. “I know.” She squints up at Maul and asks, “Who was that awful woman?”

“Ahsoka Tano. She was Darth Vader’s Padawan Learner back when he was Jedi General Anakin Skywalker. In those days, Lady Tano was one of the Jedi’s best.”

“Did they really throw her out?”

“Yes.”

Rhea looks down at her hands and admits, “I’m scared.” Scared that Maul will lose his big chance to be more than a criminal, scared that the bickering rebels will continue to be ineffective, scared that she will be just a housemaid again, and scared that the tyrannical Emperor Palpatine will never be ousted. Rhea shakes her head and says it again, “I’m s-scared.”

“Whatever happens, happens,” Maul says with resignation. “I’ve been disappointed before.” His face is slack and bleak. Rhea knows he’s thinking of Mandalore.

“Get us out of here, will you?” she mutters as she feels a fresh flood of tears threaten. 

“Good idea. Strap yourself in.” Maul slips into the pilot’s seat to take off. “Let’s go home,” he sighs. 

Home to Dathomir, where so much has happened. But where still, all these years later, Maul seeks refuge. He’s a Dark warrior of the Force, but he’s no Sith, Rhea decides. At least, not anymore despite what that shrewish Jedi claims. Maul is a Nightbrother, the last of his kind and a survivor against all odds. And Rhea believes his checkered past might just make him the best hope for the rebels to succeed. Maul could be the hero they need, if only they will let him.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	22. chapter 22

The past is a tricky, surprisingly elusive, and ironically ever-present thing. Many people spend their whole lives running away from their past. Trying to overcome the trail of mistakes that landed them in jail, or bankrupt, or perhaps earned them a divorce. Or maybe they have a blot on their personal or professional life that dogs them and they must perpetually explain themselves. But either way, the past is something they desire to hide and to forget.

And then there are the people who resolve to transcend the past. These are the people who vow not to repeat their parents’ abuse or mistakes with their own family. They will refuse to succumb to the temptations or bad judgements that lured others astray. These people seek to learn from other’s—or maybe their own—shortcomings. For them, the past is a trap they intend to elude, full of cautionary tales they refuse to repeat.

But there are also those who slavishly seek to recreate the past. They have come down in the world through some reversal of fortune. These are people who have lost status, or lost possessions, or lost loved ones, and they cannot accept that change. They spend their days plotting a comeback, trying to make the past the present once again. Seeking to find purpose, or redemption, or maybe validation through rejecting their current circumstances.

Rueful Maul knows that he is all of these people. And now, his inescapable but simultaneously unreachable past has risen up to confront him. It could ruin everything. 

Perhaps he should run to Darth Plagueis for help. But he wants to see what the Muun will do without prodding. He wants the zombie Sith Master to help him of his own volition. Because Plagueis judges him to be critical to the success of his plot. Plus, begging for help from Darth Plagueis just seems humiliating. He wants to be wanted, not to have to plead to keep himself in the game. And so, he will wait to see if Plagueis steps up without asking. Let’s see if that Muun needs him for more than weapons procurement. Let’s see if he truly wants him at the forefront of the rebellion.

He does hold the rebels’ entire army in his warehouses, paid in full by Plagueis’ credits. That alone gives him considerable leverage. 

But what if Plagueis declines to intervene? What if the rebels kick him out? What then? He will have blown his big shot. Or maybe he never had a big shot because Plagueis was merely manipulating him as his errand boy all along. If that happens, does he surrender the rebel army and walk away? Does he keep it for himself? Does he betray the rebels to Father and make an enemy of Plagueis? Or does he go back to sitting on the sidelines of galactic politics, watching his Master and his Master’s Master circle one another as a spectator?

He doesn’t want any of those outcomes. Now that he’s had a taste of what it’s like to be back in the game of power, he’s hooked. Besides, second chances don’t come often in life. They should not be squandered. Truthfully, he wants this. He really, really wants this. But he can’t bring himself to plead his case to the rebels or to Plagueis. He’s too proud. And . . . too scared to be rejected.

That situation naturally leads him here, to what remains of the Nightsisters’ lair. This is where he always comes when things are uncertain and he is vulnerable. Not just home to Dathomir, but home to Mother. 

Just entering his Mother’s overgrown grotto arouses a rush of nostalgia. This place should be neatly kept and not the riotous thick greenery it is now. There should be lamps lit to provide a soft, ambient glow. There should be incense hanging in the air, thick enough to choke you if it were an important ritual day. And old Daka should be sitting on her stool at her prayers. She was a constant, comforting presence in the Force who had a soft spot for little boys.

Daka was Mother’s mentor in her youth and Mother always kept her close. It wasn’t control, it was affection. The Nightsisters revered their elders and there was no tradition of ‘kill and replace.’ Old Daka was a very trusted councilor. On the whole, the Sisters were far more collaborative than the Sith. They had a sense of community that tempered their individual ambitions. And so old Daka took pride in Mother Talzin’s accomplishments and supported her. Daka was something of a grandmother to him as well, Maul remembers. He recalls her gnarled hands and lined face fondly. She would call him over for quick blessings and sneak him treats as Mother pretended not to notice. 

But those days are long gone. No Nightsister has conjured the Force here for a decade. Maybe some might think he should be hellbent on reviving the old ways and founding a new coven, but that has never been a goal. He refuses to be like the zealot Jedi survivors who are unable to move on. They are pitiful in their stubborn self-delusion, unable to face reality. The Jedi Order is lost, like the Witches of Dathomir are lost. Whatever comes next, it should be something that builds on the past, rather than slavishly recreates it. And besides, there are no Nightsisters left. It just seems wrong to have a man lead a coven.

But all that acceptance doesn’t make moments like this easier. For never does he feel so wretchedly alone as he does in Mother’s ruined lair. He would come here more often but for the persistent gloom these visits elicit. Standing here he appreciates all he has lost. 

He’s the last of his kind, a dying breed, but he mourns his bygone tradition far less than he mourns his lost people. They’re all gone now, from Daka to Mother to his brothers. Wherever it is that they reside currently in the Force, he hopes they are content and that they are together. For unlike the brooding Sith who tend to be insular and solitary, the witches had a vibrant community. The Nightsisters were the social type. They made no apologies for it, either.

He quiets his mind now and begins to hum. The hum becomes a whispered chant as he summons the life force that creates us all. It coaxes forth an ephemeral green mist that is the telltale sign of old magic at work. This is a tradition far older than the Jedi or the Sith. It is something more primal. More eternal. And it ends with him.

“Mother?” he calls to the netherworld of the dead. This is the realm of those who are gone and not yet gone. Folklore calls them specters and ghosts. They are haunting spirits and undead zombies in popular culture. Something to frighten you. But he knows better. Death is the way of things. It is the way of the Force. A transfer of energy from the self back into the universe from which you came.

All power is borrowed. The witches knew this to be true, even if the Sith deny it. The Dark Lords think power is personal. That great prowess is the triumph of the individual. Mother would be contemptuous of that hubris. Great power is a blessing, she taught, and it comes with a purpose. The Force does not pick and choose its favorites on a whim. If the Force is with you, it is acting through you. You only think you control the Force, she taught. Decades later, after years of Father’s rigorous training, those first lessons learned from Mother and Daka still stick with him. Maybe Rhea is right, and despite it all, he is more Nightbrother than Sith.

“Mother?” he tries again. There are some beings who thanks to their great power can transfer back and forth from the wellspring of the universe into the present. The Force is still with them, even if now they are the Force. Mother is one of those preeminent beings. For certain, Mother Talzin is a favorite of fate.

“My sssssson . . .” Mother’s voice is a sultry hiss in his mind. 

She's here! Oh, it's wonderful. He closes his eyes to bask in the mental feel of her visitation. He misses her. . . how he misses her. 

“My sssssson . . . talk to me . . . ” she encourages.

That jogs him back to his purpose. “Mother, I need your help. Cast a spell for me. Cloak me to the rebels. I have been revealed as Sith to them. They do not trust me.” 

Mother's throaty boast is like a purr between his ears. “He stole you, but you were never really his . . . you were never one of them . . . ”

“Yes! Help me to convince the rebels of that! This is my best chance to confront Father. I’m beginning to believe that it’s my best chance to locate Kenobi as well. The rebels hide Jedi. I think they know more than they say.” Certainly, that Alderaan Senator does.

“Do not underestimate the Emperor . . . or suffer your brother’s fate . . . and my fate . . . you will . . .” Again, Mother warns him away from confronting Father. It’s because she loves him and fears for him, Maul knows. 

But he will not be dissuaded. He is committed to rejoining the fray. For too long he has languished in irrelevant semi-obscurity. “I will do this, Mother! I am not going to concede this chance! But I need them to trust me if I am to lead them against Father.”

"You cannot win. Heed me, my sssssson . . . Beware Vader . . . Skywalker was begotten . . . not made . . ."

Again, she warns him of Vader with her cryptic words. But both the path back to the Apprentice role and the path to toppling Father as Master lead through Vader. Maul knows he must confront Vader.

“I will do this, Mother!”

“Find Kenobi and get your revenge. Go to Malachor to the temple ruins . . . steal the holochron to help you. A boy will meet you there . . . Wait for him. Meet his Light with your Darkness . . . and the truth will be revealed . . . ”

“I will do this, Mother! We will revolt against Father!”

“That is not your destiny. Leave it for another. The Chosen One destroys the Sith.”

“You doubt me?” That hurts. 

Mother’s voice softens. “I have only ever wished to help you.”

And now, as so often in these visitations, he devolves into a stream of consciousness confession. “Mother, I met a girl. She’s just a girl. Too young for me. Too weak. No Force, no skills. She’s no Nightsister.” He’s babbling now, suddenly nervous and sheepish to be this open about his feelings. But the words rush out anyway. Because if there’s anyone he can be truly honest with, it’s Mother. “She has no place in my story. She comes from nothing. She’s nothing. But I love her.”

There. He said it.

“SSSSSee?? He stole you, but you were never really his . . . No one who truly loves is a SSSSSith . . .”

She approves. That's a relief. “Mother, I need her. She makes me want to be more than I am. To be a better man than this. This rebellion is the key! Intercede for me, please. I was born for more than crime.”

“You were born for greatness . . . It’s why I let him keep you . . . I wanted more for you than to merely lead the Brothers . . . ”

“I will have it all! I will get my revenge on Kenobi and our revenge on Father! Mother, I will make you proud.”

“Forget pride, my ssssson . . . You are my son and that is enough for me to love you. I will always love you. Ever shall I stand for my Maul . . . the first of my boys and now the last of my boys . . . ”

“You will help?”

"Always, I watch over you. But heed me . . . beware Vader . . . beware the Emperor. Do not be his willing victim again.”

“Wait—don’t leave! Mother, don’t leave!” But she’s gone. Her fey, elusive presence slips from his mental grasp. He is alone again. 

“I miss you,” he says aloud into the empty aftermath of her visitation. She probably can’t hear him, but he says it anyway. “I love you. Please help me.”

He’s knows she will, if she can. She never lets him down, even if she disagrees. Mother always let him make his own decisions, trusting that the Force is working through him. Her approach was very different from overbearing, controlling Father who kept him on a short leash.

Unsettled, he goes back to his compound and he waits. And waits. 

There are no attempts to contact him. Not from the rebels or from Plagueis. It’s nerve wracking. He tries to distract himself with work, but running Crimson Dawn just doesn’t satisfy. In fact, it might make things worse. Because the thought of being relegated to his gangster life fulltime again depresses him.

He checks his comlink. He checks his datapad. Still no messages. Should he reach out to the rebels? No, he decides. He will stick with his strategy and let them come to him.

When he first saw Skywalker’s Padawan light her swords, he knew he had to play against type. She wanted violence, everyone expected it, and so he refused to engage. To light his own sword would immediately confirm all she asserted as true. So as she claimed the moral high ground, he positioned himself as the underdog and the victim.

Tempting as it was, killing Ahsoka Tano wouldn’t accomplish much. She’s best cast as an ally, not a conquered foe. And besides, she did free him from that Mandalorian prison sarcophagus years ago. If she hadn’t, he would almost certainly have perished along with the rest of the ship’s crew. 

His current strategy for Ahsoka Tano goes back to Father’s early training, back to the days when the Sith lurked in secret. When they had to think their way around a conflict or settle it outside of public view. Back then, he couldn’t call in an air strike to dispense with his enemies or casually butcher those who stood in his way. Father was well acquainted with violence, of course. But he used it sparingly. And if at all possible, Darth Sidious preferred to have others do the killing for him. Rather than execute you outright, he might bait some other enemy of yours to kill you instead. It kept the lofty Senator Palpatine above the fray. His hands always remained clean. 

Not so with that poseur Darth Vader. For a former Jedi, the guy is surprisingly violent. If the rumors are true, that brutish wannabe is short tempered and easily frustrated. He would never have lasted as the Apprentice in a time when rampant bloodlust was not an option. And judging by what little Maul knows of Ahsoka Tano, she seems to be very much like her old Master. 

But having Vader’s old Padawan as an ally could prove very advantageous down the line. She could be excellent at manipulating Vader into a showdown. So following Darth Sidious’ example, Maul plans to get Lady Tano to like him. Or, at the very least, to respect him. 

But for that, he has to be deeply ensconced in the rebel cause. And so, he sits and waits for the conflict to play out. All the downtime is hard. He’s a man of action, and so ceding control feels awkward. But he trusts in the web of deception he has woven and sits back to watch it do its job for him. Mother will help too. He’s certain of it.

Finally, a full six days later he receives word of a ship requesting permission to land at Dathomir. It’s a smallish, nondescript cargo transport from Alderaan carrying Bail Organa and the Togruta Jedi. Are they here to ask questions to continue their deliberations? Or have they decided what to do with the former Darth Maul? He’s dying to find out. But he doesn’t show it. A Sith always plays his cards close to his chest. 

He keeps the guards out on the landing pad as usual, mostly to make sure his guests know this is Crimson Dawn and not some random rich dude’s villa. The subtext of danger matters for this discussion. Even before the rebels see him wearing his sword like always, he wants them to perceive that he means business. This isn’t a resort, it’s a crime lord’s headquarters. 

His Master might be a thug who masquerades as a gentleman, but he’s a gentleman who lives the thug life. But make no mistake—you cross him at your peril. However this conversation goes, he will not be disrespected.

Mrs. Nettles formally receives the Senator and the Jedi with all the gravitas of a head of state. His housekeeper can be terrifyingly formal when she wants. She conducts them to him waiting in his showy office. He stands hands clasped behind his back on the far side of his large and conspicuously empty desk, facing away out a window. He doesn’t turn when his housekeeper announces his guests.

“Senator Bail Organa and Ahsoka Tano to see you, Sir.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Nettles. Send Ms. Cardulla in, please.”

“Very good, Sir.” The stately older woman withdraws and closes the door behind her. And still, he does not turn. He can feel the Force crackling and popping around him. Is the cosmos pleased or apprehensive? He cannot tell. For the invisible energy field that surrounds and penetrates all life is elusive. Only one thing is clear: change is nigh. Danger, too.

He can feel eyes on him as he speaks first. “I knew you’d be back,” he offers mildly. Shade is always best underplayed, Father taught him.

He turns just in time to see his old Jedi foe cross her arms. “I see you’re being your usual gloating self about it,” Lady Tano observes. Did Skywalker teach her that sarcasm? Kenobi sure didn’t.

Organa shoots his colleague a not-so-subtle ‘shut up’ look. Alderaan’s senior Senator is a smooth politician as always. He might be standing in a notorious gangster’s study, but you’d never know it from his gentlemanly aplomb. This guy always takes the high road. 

“Maul, we’re here to discuss the future. We want to move forward . . . with your involvement.”

Good. That much is out of the way, even if the terms are yet to be discussed. Maul suppresses a satisfied and relieved smile. Taking his cue from the Senator, he too is cordial. “I’m very glad to hear that. Please,” he gestures to the pair of chairs opposite his desk, “have a seat.”

The Senator settles himself down, but the Jedi lingers on her feet. “My lady?” Maul prods her.

She might be in attendance, but she’s not happy about it. The Togruta flashes a cool, tight smile. “Thank you, but I’ll stand.”

“Very well.” As he sinks into his own chair, he can’t resist teasing her. “Should I count it as progress that you haven’t pulled your swords?”

“Yes. Where’s your sidekick?”

As if on cue, the door opens to admit Rhea. “Ah, here she is. We have guests.”

Rhea is only late because he sent her to go change for the occasion. She’s wearing the dress with the attached cape that makes her look like Ryloth’s princess in exile. She has all the graciousness to match that title today. He watches as she inclines her head and greets their guests. 

“Senator. My lady. Welcome to Dathomir. Welcome to Crimson Dawn.” 

There’s no trace of the aggressive, street talking gang bitch who surfaced in the heat of the moment on the _Tantive IV_. Right now, Rhea is the young lady she was raised to be before the war by her upper-middle class professional parents and a coterie of private schools, cultural enrichments, and doting nannies. When combined with her dual faces—she’s both beauty and the beast—little Rhea is strikingly memorable. She repulses even as she attracts. In her own way, Maul thinks, she is every bit as distinctive as he is. And just as darkly glamorous.

“Call me Ahsoka,” the Jedi’s response is snippy. “I’m no longer a Jedi and I’m not your lady.”

“As you wish.” Rhea’s rejoinder is more frosty than polite. 

Like Ahsoka, Rhea doesn’t take a chair. Instead, she moves to hover over his left shoulder. It’s very intentionally the side opposite his sword arm in case this devolves into a fight. His girl stands in her place obeying instructions to let him do the talking.

The Senator begins. “As you can imagine, we have had a number of conversations over the past few days.”

Maul nods. “My ears were burning.”

“We’ve considered what Ahsoka has told us, as well as all that you have done for our cause. There was considerable debate, I must tell you. It was a spirited discussion with all options on the table.”

“And yet, you’re here.”

“Yes. We are here.” The Senator shifts in his seat before he speaks plainly. “Maul, you’re an unusual fit for us in some ways, but in other ways you’re very much like the rest of us. Many in our cause have a sad story behind their recruitment and not all of us have spotless reputations. But none has quite so colorful and complex a history as you.” Bail Organa gives him a surprisingly steely look before he concludes, “You present a very great risk. Some would call it an existential risk.”

He takes that statement like compliment. Maul nods slowly and silently.

“You also present much needed expertise and a very focused mindset. Your er . . . day job provides much needed strategic benefits as well. Venamis was correct that you represent a unique opportunity.”

“Did he speak for me?” 

“No. We did not involve him in our deliberations. He knew of them, but he deferred to our judgement. The Prince said he could not be impartial given he had recommended you to us in the first place.”

Maul digests this news and says nothing.

“Raddus and Draven argued hard for you. As did I. Maul, we are very different men, but I think we understand each other. I’m choosing to see the best of you and not the worst of your resume.” Bail Organa summarizes the rebel leadership’s reasoning now: “You are a valued and proven member of our team, and we hate to lose you. You have done more to organize us for the coming war in the last few months than even Raddus has accomplished building our fleet. You have earned our respect.”

The Jedi speaks up now. Her words are a hissed warning. “Don’t let us down or you’ll answer to me.”

“Is that a promise?” he drawls back.

“You can count on it.”

That exchange earns Lady Tano another quelling glance from Organa. 

The Senator continues, “Like you, I envision this rebellion to be a big tent. All who agree with our goals and ideals should be welcome. That’s the only way we will prevail in a general uprising to restore a democratic republic. I’m not looking to scrutinize your past or to pass judgement on your current profession. If we are to make this a galaxy-wide movement of diverse peoples, then we can’t exclude supporters. Plus, I personally believe that you have demonstrated your trustworthiness. Frankly, I care less about who you were than who you are now.”

“What he means is that you’re getting the benefit of the doubt,” the Togruta snarls. 

Is Vader equally as obnoxious? Maul wonders. Because it’s a marvel his Padawan wasn’t kicked out of the Jedi Order sooner if she was always this diplomatic. For a so-called peacekeeper, Ahsoka Tano sure likes to escalate things. 

Maul addresses his Jedi troll directly now. “Am I getting the benefit of the doubt just from him or from you as well? Because I meant what I said. Together we could be formidable.”

He’s testing the waters for the classic ‘Join me’ Sith recruitment speech. But he’s preempted, for again she turns him down. “I will tolerate you, Maul, but that’s all. We’re not a team for your revenge.”

He frowns. “How you disappoint me.” He eyes the Togruta woman a moment. “Does this mean you’re not going to be our Fulcrum? Because that would disappoint me as well. You have the perfect skillset for the role.”

“Ahsoka is to be one of several Fulcrums,” the Senator answers. “We are persuaded to have multiple operatives in that function. I believe you have already met one of our other choices, Cassian Andor.”

“Draven’s young spy?”

“Yes. But there will be others. Your point is well taken that we want to avoid a bottleneck and having several in the position will help us confuse the Empire.”

“Good,” he approves. Not only has he been accepted despite his Sith background, but his tweaks to Draven’s organizational structure are accepted as well. This is excellent progress.

“You have a strategic mind, Maul. You’re very crafty,” the Senator commends.

“He comes by it honestly,” the Jedi interjects. “He learned from the best.”

Maul makes a point of frowning again at her sarcasm. He looks to the Senator to complain, “What assurances do I have that she’s not going to be a problem going forward? I want to fight the Empire, not her.”

“Ahsoka will work with you,” Bail Organa assures him. 

“Is that so?” Maul addresses the hostile woman. He sits back in his chair and considers his old foe. 

“Scared, Maul?”

He ignores the taunt. “I’m used to watching my back and I can handle you. But I don’t want the distraction. There is plenty to do and we have enough infighting without you adding to it.”

“Ahsoka will work with you,” Bail Organa assures him again as he shoots his colleague yet another ‘stand down’ look. “She will report to Draven. He will run the day-to-day for the Fulcrum program while you and Raddus keep your main focus on building our army and fleet. Together, you three will continue to comprise the leadership for our armed forces. So . . . everything stays the same and we move forward,” he concludes. 

“Are we agreed?” the Senator looks to his companion.

“We are agreed,” the Jedi sighs.

Maul nods as graciously as possible as he takes the win. “We are agreed.”

But is this just a pretext to mislead him so he will cooperate? Will the rebels be moving fast to collect their weapons from his warehouses before they dump him? No. It seems that Bail Organa is sincere and the rebels want matters to proceed as before. 

Organa starts talking about rescheduling the meeting with Draven and Raddus to discuss the practical aspects of the new Fulcrum program. Things are heating up politically in the Rim systems and Organa and Mothma want to better organize the nascent sleeper cells there and get them equipped. As the conversation proceeds, Maul becomes increasingly confident that he truly has been accepted back into the rebels’ good graces. 

This is good. This is very good. It’s not quite happily-ever-after, but it’s a step towards it.

He’s encouraged enough to argue with Organa to make Mimban an equal priority with the Rim. He wants to get the locals there a consistent source of supplies and weapons, as well as to recruit fighters to join them from other systems. He continues to think Mimban is an excellent forum to test weapons and tactics. It will also be a training ground for combat volunteers to give them some seasoning before they are farmed out to advise local system cells. Best of all, the rebel dealings on Mimban will be under-the-radar since the original resistance fighters there are homegrown. If all goes well, the Imperials won’t suspect that they are dealing with something new and more far reaching. As far as Maul’s concerned, Mimban should be the first spoke in the wheel of the Fulcrum conspiracy. 

He largely convinces both the Senator and the Jedi of his ideas. They agree on a next meeting date to talk further. Maul insists that all the new Fulcrum operatives be present. “I want to share some techniques,” he tells Lady Tano.

“I don’t need pointers, thank you.”

But he persists. “You do. All of the Fulcrum operatives will need experienced guidance. Back when you were a child, I was organizing the precursors to the Confederacy for Darth Sidious,” he reminds her. For now that there is no need to hide the past, he leans into it. “I know a few things about laying the groundwork for an insurrection.”

“How ironic that a Separatist is bringing back the Republic,” she observes as she folds her arms across her chest.

“Look outside, my lady,” he retorts. “Look at what Dooku did to Dathomir before you call me a Separatist again.” 

With that comment, he proceeds, “You should learn from my past endeavors. We can use the Emperor’s own techniques against him while we avoid the pratfalls that bedeviled him. Palpatine was excellent at stirring up trouble behind the scenes while he kept a veneer of status quo. You were there, Senator,” he addresses Organa. “You saw him operate. He fooled everyone. Take him for an example for your own dealings, and you and Mothma could end up running a rebellion from the Emperor’s own Senate.”

Organa nods his agreement but, predictably, the Jedi is unconvinced. “We need to be careful who we emulate,” she says with pretentious Jedi foreboding. 

“It’s time to outfox the fox,” he maintains. “There is too much at risk for us to lose because we have strict scruples. I assure you,” he condescends to the doubting woman, “my old Master will have no such inhibitions.” He waves a gloved finger at the righteous Jedi as he indulges in a bit of fearmongering himself. “Do not underestimate the Emperor. You don’t know the power of the Dark Side,” he intones. And wait, that may have come across a little too proudly.

But he has the last word because that ends the meeting. Organa needs to leave and there’s no point in proceeding further without his allies Draven and Raddus in the room to temper the pushback he gets from Ahsoka Tano. Besides, today is a win. Time to declare victory and move on to the next battle. 

Still, he gets more Togruta side-eye as he and Rhea walk his guests to their ship. “I never thought I’d see the day when you and I would be on the same side,” Lady Tano sniffs.

Now, it’s his turn to troll. And troll he does. “Admit it, you’re loving this.”

She huffs, “Am not!”

“The more you protest, the more I know you like it,” he smirks. “You get to be smugly superior even as you harness my forbidden Sith knowledge. All for a good cause, of course. Types like you will only sully themselves for a good cause.” Rhea is a few paces ahead chatting with the Senator, so he continues, “I know every good Jedi yearns for martyrdom.”

His newest nemesis rolls her eyes. “I’m no Jedi. Maul, don’t make me regret my decision to work with you.”

“Do you regret Mandalore? Do you regret turning me down all those years ago?”

“No.”

“If I were a petty man, now is when I’d say ‘I told you so.’”

She shoots him a look. “I knew you would get around to that line eventually.”

He chuckles. “See? You can’t get rid of me. All these years later, here we are again, ready to save the galaxy together. Some might say this is destiny at work . . . that the Force is with us.”

“Are you always going to be like this?”

“You’d be disappointed if I wasn’t,” he points out as they catch up to Rhea and the Senator. 

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” the Togruta sighs.

“If you tell me about Darth Vader, I’ll let you hold my lightsaber,” he leers. “You know you want to.”

“Bail, let’s go,” Lady Tano announces as she strides purposely for Organa’s ship. 

Rhea says goodbye to the Senator and the transport takes off. It’s just him and Rhea reentering his villa.

“That went well,” he congratulates himself.

Rhea says nothing. 

“Plagueis sat out the debate. Do you think that means he was confident I didn’t need his help? Or was he prepared to let me twist in the wind?”

Rhea answers, “Will that be all? If so, I’ll go change and head to the kitchen.”

“I’ll walk you there.”

“There’s no need. I know you’re busy.”

“Getting rid of me?”

He’s teasing, but she doesn’t answer. Rhea starts striding away fast just like the Jedi. And that’s when it dawns on him: she’s angry. He had been too preoccupied with the meeting post mortem to notice. “You’re angry.”

She walks even faster now as he catches up. “I’m fine.” 

She’s definitely not fine. Women are never fine when they say they’re fine. “You’re angry,” he accuses.

Rhea drops the pretense. “Yes.”

“At me?”

“Yes!” She speeds up some more. Rhea’s practically running through the hallway.

“Why?” What did he do wrong? He thought she would be happy about this. Rhea’s an enthusiastic rebel. What did he miss? He’s perplexed. “Why?”

“You know why!”

Actually, he doesn’t. And that’s saying something because he can read people’s minds.

“Tell me.” Truly, he’s confused. Things went about as well as they could have gone in that meeting.

“Really? You really need me to tell you??” She shoots him a glare. But he can’t decide if Rhea is more angry or hurt. 

Puzzled, he observes, “I’ve never seen you this riled up.” He secretly kind of likes it. Passion is his thing. Anger is his comfort zone. Well, that and self-doubt. “Come on, tell me,” he cajoles. 

“I didn’t think I would ever see you flirting with that Jedi—"

“Flirting?” He grunts. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah?” Rhea pulls to an abrupt halt. She puts fists on her hips and lifts her chin. “Then what was all that ‘the Force is with us’ talk? Huh?”

“It’s just talk. You’ve heard me talk to the Hutts and to Plagueis.”

“That’s different.”

“Not really.”

“It is! The male-female dynamic makes it different.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I? What part of ‘I’ll let you hold my lightsaber’ isn’t innuendo?” she huffs.

“Trash talk is part of the game.” Rhea doesn’t know that because she’s a layman in the Jedi-Sith turf battles of the Force. But talking smack as you prepare to cross swords is how it’s done. It’s lightsaber foreplay and it leads to violence, not sex.

“You were enjoying it!” Rhea accuses. She looks away. “So was she . . .”

He snorts. “That one would rather impale me than kiss me.”

“Oh, so you’ve thought about kissing her—"

“No!” Not at all. Ahsoka Tano is the last woman he would attempt to seduce. For starters, she probably knows exactly how badly Kenobi injured him. No doubt she would ridicule him for it. And that would really put a damper on his ardor.

“She’s Jedi and she’s got the Force and two swords. I guess that’s hot to you . . . You’re right that she hates you,” Rhea agrees. But then she slants pretty eyes his way as she purses her lips. “But maybe that’s hot to you too . . . ”

“I kill my enemies,” he brags, “I don’t seduce them.”

“You had better not!” She wages an irate index finger under his nose, heedless of the fact that they are standing in a semi-public space.

“I like that you’re jealous.”

“Who’s jealous? I’m not jealous. Not at all,” Rhea insists. She’s very unconvincing. “Her crest is a little crooked, did you notice? And three head tails are one head tail too many.”

“I agree. Look, she’s a Jedi nun,” he reminds her. “They don’t romance.”

“She used to be Jedi. So, she probably could now.”

“Good point.” And now, just to egg Rhea on in this ridiculousness, he wonders aloud, “Do you think she likes me? Does she find me attractive?”

“Of course, she does!”

“How can you tell?” He is coy.

“She’s fast with the witty comebacks. She’s got that sassy, mouthy thing going on. Maybe you don’t see it, but I know the game. I know a ho—stop laughing! This is not funny!” Rhea looks like steam is about to come out of her ears. She scowls. “I hate that Jedi bitch. Fucking Force ho!”

“Little one, such language—I’m shocked!” he smirks. “Who taught you those words?”

“Well, I hate her!” Rhea stamps her foot for emphasis. “She’s a bully and I hate her!”

Hate amps things up. If anger is hot, hate is even better. “You’re adorable like this.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. “You think this is funny? Because this is not funny!” Rhea shrieks. She is all twisted mouth, fuming eyes, and agitated lekku. 

And now, he simply cannot resist. “Do you think a former Jedi Knight and a disowned Sith Lord—“

“No! It would never work!” She cuts him off and resumes walking away now.

He pretends to consider as he leaps to catch up. “Maybe she just wants to use me for sex,” he suggests under his breath.

“She might!” Rhea warns. She’s completely serious, Force bless her. “I mean, what girl wouldn’t? You’re so handsome . . . and your power is awesome . . .”

“Awesome and handsome?” he leers. “Tell me more.”

“You run the gang and you’re rich . . . you’re a prince and every girl wants a prince . . . probably even Jedi nuns,” Rhea mutters miserably.

“No Sith has ever been confused with Prince Charming,” he remarks dryly. But he appreciates the comparison nonetheless.

“Some girls are into the bad boy thing,” she assures him.

“Uhhmmm, yes. Perhaps Lady Tano, you think?”

“Dark and Light, Jedi and Sith,” she sighs. “You might—“

“Don’t say balance. Please, don’t say balance,” he groans. That enemies-to-lovers trope is so cliché. Only Plagueis would be into something as cheesy as that.

“Well, you have to admit that you are the best catch of the available Sith. So if she’s going to go Dark, she had better choose you.”

He chokes back a grin. “What an extraordinary endorsement.”

“There’s no competition,” Rhea informs him. “Hands down, you win.”

“How so?”

“Well, your dad looks like a prune.”

“He also rules the galaxy. Some women might like that.”

“Whatever. He looks like a prune.” Absolute power is apparently not Rhea’s big turn on. “I mean, he makes the Dark Side look old and ugly, not exotically handsome and dangerous like you.”

“There’s always Plagueis,” he suggests just to see how he compares. That Muun might not be handsome, but he is ridiculously dangerous. And immensely rich. Plagueis makes him look like a pauper.

“Plagueis is nine feet tall.”

More like seven, but the point is the same. He concedes, “He is rather big for you.”

“And Vader . . . well, Vader has a plastic face and that’s not hot. I should know, I mean, look at my face. Faces matter. And he needs horns. I like your horns. They look like a crown.”

“So, I win by process of elimination? Or is it just by the horns?”

“You’re also the youngest.”

“Actually, Vader is younger.”

“I guess the mask adds ten years,” she decides. “I don’t like that mask. I mean, if I can walk through life looking like this, he can too. You don’t see me wearing a mask, do you? Neither does Plagueis, for that matter--”

“So . . . what you’re saying is that you won’t share me? Is that it?” he asks hopefully, trying to spin this increasingly bizarre conversation to his advantage.

She looks away. “We don’t have a commitment, I know . . . no strings . . . no expectations.”

Hell, no. That’s all wrong. “I’ll kill you if even look at another man!” Did he not make this clear before on Lothal?? Do they have to replay that fight again??

Wretched Rhea is not even listening. “So if you want to cheat with her, I guess I can’t be upset . . . it will be fine . . . I guess . . . ”

Wait—she wants him to cheat? 

“I won’t like it though,” she warns.

That sounds better. But it’s still not good enough. “Tell me you’ll kill her if I kiss her,” he goads suggestively as he steps closer.

That gets her attention. “Why hurt her?” Rhea responds tartly. “I’m going to hurt you!”

Even better. “Tell me what you’ll do to me,” he presses as he strokes a light hand down her nearest lekku. His voice lowers to an intimate whisper. “Tell me exactly what you’ll do to me.” He’s the one who likes to talk dirty, but maybe they should reverse those roles for a change.

“I’ll—I’ll—I’ll shoot you! I know how to shoot!”

Hardly. “I can deflect blaster bolts.”

“Yeah . . . yeah, I know.” Rhea sort of deflates as she stops to think. “Maybe I’ll steal your sword and run you through,” she threatens. She sort of resembles an irked kitten as she gets up in his face. More cute than menacing.

“Would you know how to turn it on? Be careful when you turn it on,” he warns mostly to keep her talking.

“P-Perhaps--perhaps I should just poison you!” she improvises.

“Now that plot might work, but Mrs. Nettles would never stand for it. And Cook would be offended,” he guesses.

Frustrated Rhea lashes out. “Maybe I should just kill myself instead!” she huffs, sounding extremely childish.

“Oh, don’t do that,” he counters as he watches a tear leak down her good cheek. He wipes it away. “Mother used to say that suicide is a sin against the Force. That we must accept the life we are given, with all its challenges and suffering.”

“You really do like that Jedi, don’t you? Well, I won’t stand in your way. You can have her!” Fuming Rhea starts marching away now. He gives chase, nabbing her hand and yanking her to a halt. 

“Little one, look at me.” 

“I have work to do—”

“You work for me, remember?”

“Mrs. Nettles might think otherwise,” she grumbles as she looks down. “Just don’t tell me about it, alright?” she chokes. “And don’t do it here at the compound. I don’t want to know, okay?? It’s better that way.”

“Rhea, look at me.”

“Promise me you won’t tell me. Maul,” she looks up and pleads, “Promise me?” When he hesitates, she stammers, “N-Never trust a Sith, I know . . . but you know I trust you. We all do here.”

He knows. This has gone on long enough. There really isn’t a disagreement here. “How about I keep my hands off other women and you keep away from other men? It will be you and me. Only you and me.”

“Just us?” she blinks up at him.

“You’ll be mine and I’ll be yours exclusively.”

She nods. “Okay.” Then, she nods again. “Okay. That would . . . that would be nice.” She flashes a tremulous smile. “That would be p-perfect.”

“If you want, we can get married,” he offers on a whim.

“But your people aren’t the marrying kind.”

“But your people are,” he shrugs. He meets her eyes. “I want to make you happy.” And he wants her to feel secure. He’ll make whatever promises she needs to feel confident that he will stand by her, regardless of what the future brings. Because he keeps his commitments to those who love him and trust him. He’s no Darth Sidious.

“Never trust a Sith . . .” Rhea breathes out again. They are wise words of warning that he himself knows all too well. 

So, he nods even as he counters, “Yes, but you can trust a Nightbrother,” as he lays hands on her upper arms and steps close. 

He ceased to be Darth Maul decades ago. Father has made his status very clear. Even the rebels now concede the truth. So maybe he himself should acknowledge that reality as well. He’s no Sith. He’s not sure exactly what he is in the pantheon of religions of the Force. Moreover, he has no clue where he fits into history. His destiny has turned out to be far more elusive and obscure than he hoped. And that’s just further testament to the truth that he’s Maul now, not Darth Maul. A free agent of the Dark Side, whether he likes it or not. 

Someone’s coming. As he’s leaning in for Rhea’s lips, he pulls back slightly. Rhea reacts, “What is it?” She visibly startles when seconds later a voice sounds. 

“Where is that girl? Oh, there you are.” It’s his housekeeper Mrs. Nettles emerging into the hallway. In her typical crotchety style, she barks, “Don’t mind me, Sir. Rhea, you hurry up and kiss him. Then get to the kitchen. Cook needs your help with the potatoes for dinner.”

“Oh . . .” Rhea flushes beneath her green skin. She steps back from his arms looking guilty and caught. She stammers, “It’s not what you think—“

“Of course, it is,” the older woman cuts her off. “I know. We all know. So finish with Maul and head for the kitchen. Your pardon, Sir, for the interruption.”

“You know??” Rhea gasps. She turns to him and groans, “She knows.”

Gruff Mrs. Nettles actually smiles and chuckles. “Thought you were fooling everyone, did you? Rhea, you haven’t slept in the room next to mine for months. At first, I thought you were flirting with one of the men in the barracks but that didn’t pan out. I was ready to give you a lecture until I realized where you were every night. So, get on with it. Don’t mind me,” his gruff, matter-of-fact housekeeper makes to leave. She’s smiling.

“Everyone knows??” Rhea says weakly, looking to him. She’s mortified.

He’s unconcerned. “You heard her.” Actually, he’s not surprised. Moreover, he fully suspects that there are plenty in his gang who have guessed where his weapons shipments are going. The impromptu visit today by a well-known liberal Senator will be the confirmation they seek. His treasonous exploits just became the latest Crimson Dawn open secret.

“I didn’t see a thing,” Mrs. Nettles winks conspiratorially as she hurries away.

“That means the coast is clear.” He steps close again and lifts Rhea’s chin. “Kiss me. Kiss me and tell me again how awesome and handsome I am.”

“Oh, fine.” Flustered, blushing Rhea goes through the motions of a kiss. Then, she hurries off to change and see about those potatoes. 

Later that evening, she’s at his door with his helping of potatoes and the rest of his dinner. And that’s when he renews their earlier conversation. It turns out that Rhea is ambivalent on marriage. At this point, she’s simply strayed too far from the traditional social path she was raised to expect. Why bother, she reasons. They won’t have children, there are no loved ones to attend a ceremony, and since they are basically outlaws, there are no appearances to keep up. Rhea only wants his love and their mutual commitment. That’s enough, she tells him. But to memorialize those promises, she requests something that charms him. She wants a tattoo like one of his markings. 

Traditionally, the warrior Nightbrothers wore the tribal kinship markings. Any tattoos the Nightsisters chose were purely decorative. But there are no surviving Nightsisters that he knows of and he himself is the last of his kind. Who is left to chide him for honoring an off-world Twi’lek as one of the coven? This way, they will belong to one another, he decides. He won’t be alone anymore and neither will Rhea. They will be each other’s family going forward. He himself was born to one parent and stolen by the other. But this kinship affiliation is by choice. That’s empowering in a way. Plus, Mother would approve, he thinks.


	23. chapter 23

It takes him an entire week of after-dinner sessions to finish the elegant scrollwork on Rhea’s back. The tattoo begins at her shoulder blades and traces down her spine. It’s elegant and sparse so as not to overwhelm her small frame. But it marks her for a daughter of Dathomir all the same. No one can see it beneath her clothes. Only he gets to view it, and he likes it that way. 

Tattoos are a handicraft his people learned young. Savage was very good at it, and his brother helped him touchup his own markings after his rescue from Lotho Minor. It was a point of pride among the Nightbrothers never to let their ink become faded or distorted. And so, as he works, Maul can’t help but reminisce about the past. But enough time has passed that talking about Savage feels good. Painful still, but good. 

“He played the tough guy role. Mother transformed him into an imposing figure. Taller and broader than any Nightbrother before him.” Maul shakes his head as he recalls, “Savage might have looked like a brute and had the name of a brute, but he wasn’t a brute. He was Dark, but he was never truly Sith. He was far too loyal.”  
  
He repositions himself to get a better angle for Rhea’s left shoulder. She’s lying face down on his bed as inks her. Those pretty lekku are swept forward and her chin is propped on her hands.   
  
“So . . . you and your brother were both Sith Apprentices . . .”  
  
He takes exception to the comparison of their experience. “Savage was more like a sadist’s whipping boy. Dooku treated him terribly and taught him very little. The relationship was nothing like Father and me. Nothing,” he says emphatically. It’s important that she know that.  
  
Rhea just remarks softly, “I can tell how much you miss him.”  
  
“I do,” he admits. “Savage saved my life more than once.” 

He will always be grateful for his fearsome, yet big hearted little brother who was loyal to the end. Savage died a warrior’s death, and that is something both his people and the Sith tradition would respect. There is no shame in being slain with a sword in your hand by the Sith Emperor Darth Sidious.   
  
“I would have liked to have met him. I’m sorry he’s not here,” Rhea laments.   
  
“Me too, little one . . . me too.” 

Rhea was the youngest in her family. She played the Savage role, looking up to her elder sister as the example to emulate. She speaks of her dead sister now with a plodding wistfulness he can relate to. He nods along, listening as he works. This is good for her, he can tell. Like speaking of Savage is good for him. 

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if your brother had lived and not you?” she asks.

“That was never really a possible outcome. Father would have killed us both. I was surprised at the time that he showed me mercy,” he recalls.

“If Thetis had lived and I had died, I think she would have made better choices than I did. She was always so confident and sure of herself. Like you are. She would never have ended up in Crimson Dawn.”

Maul hears behind Rhea’s words the shameful recognition that she let people down. Not just her dead family, but herself. It’s a lament he knows all too well. 

“All of us can be lost from time to time,” he offers quietly. 

This is his opening to confess the truth of Lotho Minor. Should he go there? He does. “Savage found me after I lost to Kenobi. I was marooned . . . and not right.”

“You were terribly injured,” she cheerleads loyally.  
  
“It was more than that. I was a wreck both physically and mentally.” There. He said it . . . sort of. Somehow, it’s easier than he imagined. Maybe because he’s talking to Rhea and he can tell her anything. It probably helps that he’s focused on inking a straight line right now and there is that to focus on as well.  
  
“It must have been a lot to handle,” she commiserates.  
  
He admits, “It was more than I could handle.“ And now, he unloads the whole unhappy truth. “When Savage found me, I didn’t recognize him. I didn't even know my own name. All I knew was my hatred for Kenobi.” His obsession with revenge kept him alive for years. He was a wild, desperate thing half reconstructed with spider legs built from spare parts. Malnourished, in constant pain, and completely insane from the unending hopelessness of it all. He was Dark, so Dark, too Dark. All these years later, it still makes him uncomfortable to remember it. It’s a part of his past he locks away deep.

“You poor thing,” Rhea sighs in sympathy. 

“I was weak in body . . . and in mind.” Is she getting this? Or does he have to spell it out?   
  
“I understand. After I was hurt, I was a bit lost,” she confides. “I had always been someone’s daughter or someone’s sister. But my family was gone. Everything was gone. Even my face.”  
  
“You’re beautiful still.”   
  
“Not really. But thank you for saying so.” She casts a quick smile at him over her shoulder.   
  
He grunts and turns back to his task. “Beauty is more than a face.” Much more.   
  
“Maybe so, but a big part of a woman’s beauty is her face. After my injury, I had to adjust to how people react to me now. I didn’t realize how much beauty is a privilege until I lost it.” Rhea is glumly philosophical about her predicament. “It was humbling in a way, I guess. I didn’t realize how much of my self-identity was wrapped up in being the pretty girl.”  
  
He can relate. “My whole self was being the Apprentice. For a long time afterwards, I thought there was nothing left of me without Father and his plans for the future.”  
  
“You didn’t want to go back home to Dathomir? To be a Nightbrother again?”   
  
“Savage took me home to Mother. She healed me with the Force. She brought me back with her mother’s love and her strong magic.”  
  
“You can do that?”  
  
“Oh yes. The Jedi had very skilled healers. Supposedly, they worked miracles.”  
  
“And the Sith?”  
  
“They do not heal. Dark power sustained me when I was cut in two. But it would not heal me. Only the Light Side heals.”  
  
“And your mother knew this Jedi knowledge?”  
  
He states it differently. “Mother did not acknowledge the distinction of Light and Dark. She thought power was power, and her old ways did not limit how or when to use power.” He muses, “I guess you could say her magic could be both Dark and Light. But she would just call it the Force.” Mother was a threatening enigma to the prevailing Jedi and Sith religions because she rejected both of their orthodoxies. In the good guy/bad guy, Dark-versus-Light dichotomy, she was something that defied categorization. In the end, it meant she was an enemy to everybody.  
  
“Mother healed my body as best she could. Most importantly, she healed my mind.” He puts his tools down now and sits up as he plainly admits, “I was insane. Rhea, I was a raving lunatic. Darkness had consumed me,” he confesses in a shameful whisper.   
  
Rhea sits up now and reaches for his hand. She’s always reaching out to him. “How miserable you must have been . . .”  
  
“Yes . . . I was weak and distraught. Savage and Mother helped me when I needed it most. Now they are gone and Father is all who remains.”  
  
“No. You have me,” Rhea squeezes his hand as she smiles at him. It’s everything he needs to hear in the moment and it’s why she wears his markings on her back. 

But he feels compelled to warn her. “I have you for now.” He meets her gaze steadily as he soberly reminds her, “Everyone who has ever been close to me has died at Father’s hand. Little one, if Father ever learns of you, you could be in great danger.”  
  
“Because of my role in the rebellion?”  
  
“Because of who you are to me.” This is one of many fears he has for how the future could play out. “He might try to use you against me. He might even demand that I kill you to prove that you are not a weakness. Father delights in little tests of obedience.”  
  
“O-Oh.”

“He can be petty like that. Always wanting you to demonstrate your loyalty and sacrifice for him. Father could be very overbearing.” That’s an understatement. Father was consistently controlling. It’s part of why he felt so lost without a Master. As capable and well-trained as he was, Maul had never been allowed to make his own decisions before Naboo. It contributed to his crisis in self-worth after his loss to Kenobi. He didn’t begin to know how to pick up the pieces of his life and move on by himself.  
  
“I worry we won’t end well,” he suddenly confesses. “All along, I have warned you. I’m warning you again,” he blurts out.  
  
“Too late.” She is brave as she promises, “I’m not leaving you.” Young, naive Rhea has no idea what it means to cross his Master.   
  
He tells the selfish truth. “I won’t let you leave me. But neither will I sacrifice you to Father’s whims.” If he can’t have her, he refuses to kill her. With a heavy sigh, Maul admits something no self-respecting Sith would ever divulge: “Already I have sacrificed too many people I Iove for power and glory.” He won’t add Rhea to the list.

“It won’t come to that.”

“It might.” He gulps back his anxiety at that outcome. He doesn’t want to think about that outcome. Because if ever he is forced to choose between Rhea and his father, he doesn’t know what he will do. Well, that’s not precisely true . . . Deep down, he knows what he would do.

Making a face, he now rasps, “If ever I send you away, know that it will be for your own good. Promise me you will accept it. Promise me you will obey.”

She digs in. “I’m not leaving you.”

He knows she means it, and he loves her for it. But it could be her undoing. When faced with the very real possibility of the rebels kicking him out, all he wanted was back in the game. But now that he’s received his wish, all the permutations that could come to pass are back on the table. Maul is keenly aware that he could be end up being a big loser . . . and he might take Rhea down with him. But there are scenarios in which he could end up being a big winner . . . and still lose her one way or another.

“You’re my family now. Rhea, I refuse to lose any more of my family to Father’s rage.”

She does not argue further with him. She just changes the topic, like she always does when they have a conflict. As she lays back down for him to continue his work, Rhea asks, “Who was Sister Ventress? I’ve been meaning to ask you. I think you and that Togruta spoke of her.”  
  
“Did we?” He forgets. “That’s a name from the past . . . ”

“Who was she?”

“Ventress was a Nightsister who Dooku took on as an assassin. Asaj Ventress was one of the few to grow up outside the coven. Like me, it meant she had very mixed loyalties.”

“But she came home like you did?”

“Mmmm, yes . . . eventually. Mother took her back into the coven. She always welcomed a Sister or Brother home from the outside. Mother felt strongly that the coven should be a refuge even for those who chose to leave it.”

“So she’s dead now?”  
  
“I assume so.” He really doesn’t know. “Ventress wanted the Apprentice role but was denied it.”  
  
Rhea shoots him a wry look over her shoulder. “Everyone wants to be a Sith Apprentice?”   
  
“Everyone wants power,” he confirms. “Now, hold still, little one. You’ll make me smear.”

Pair bonding like he and Rhea was never a tradition of his people. On Dathomir, men and women did not live together or mate for life. But that didn’t mean that the witches were cold or distant. The coven had a deep commitment to community. Kinship bonds ran deep. Siblings often spent their whole lives working side by side, looking out for one another. Mothers and aunts mentored daughters and fathers and uncles guided sons. ‘I am my Brother’s keeper’ was a maxim all little boys learned young in the village. It was more than mere words, it was a lifestyle for a Nightbrother. 

He left all that behind when he went to live with Father. That’s when he was first exposed to concepts of marriage and the nuclear family. Conventional humanoid romance has a script of boy meets girl, boy chases girl, boy gets the girl, and then they seal the commitment with a lifelong exclusive pledge. Sex roles were also very different outside the coven. Matrilineal societies and female leaders existed elsewhere in the galaxy, but they were not the prevailing norm. As a young boy, he remembers marveling at the exoticism of the patriarchy. It was years until he realized that the witches were the exotic ones. The Nightsisters achieved a level of equality and respect not found in other cultures.

But you can’t live amid a dominant culture without some of it rubbing off. And so, he now finds himself in a romantic attachment that his native people would find peculiar. Maybe it’s just his Sith tendencies to possession and obsession showing. But he likes to think that he and Rhea are the best of both worlds. That their commitment combines the steadfast forever support the coven gave its members with the personal pledge of a romantic marriage. It feels good. She’s happy and so is he.

But their contentment does not erase the many problems of life. He’s still overworked and increasingly Rhea is as well. Her time spent on the rebellion crowds out other tasks. Soon, he thinks, Rhea will need to devote herself fulltime to managing his burgeoning army. He’s suggested it a few times, but she keeps putting him off. She likes tending to his compound, Rhea tells him. Is there more to it? He wonders. 

But the next day as he looks up from his desk during a midmorning break, he catches Rhea standing outside at the edge of the compound garden near the landing pad. It brings an automatic smile to his face. This is how he first got to know his little Twi’lek housemaid—from her habit of brooding over the battle wreckage that surrounds his estate. She hasn’t done it in a long time. She’s probably been too busy. But here she is at it again today. Even at this distance, the Force tells him that she’s pensive. That gets him a little worried. Concerned, he goes out to investigate. 

“I hate war,” she speaks as he walks up. Rhea knows he’s coming thanks to his metal legs that tap on the pavement. “War is . . . war is . . .” She doesn’t finish. She just leaves the sentence hanging, uncertain how to conclude it. 

He joins her leaning on the fence railing facing away from the compound. When she stays glumly silent, he offers, “The Sith teach that conflict is inevitable. That you should use it for your own gain. Peace is a lie, they say.”

She looks to him. “Do you believe that?”

“I’m not sure.” He doesn’t know what he believes anymore. 

“War is change,” he muses as he considers the issue. “And change begets change. So when hostilities come out into the open, other grievances surface too. Suddenly, politics and society move at lightspeed. It’s why nothing is the same after a war ends, no matter who the winner is. It’s why history is often measured by wars. Wars are inflection points that start and end entire eras.” 

Rhea concurs. “Wars matter.”

She’s right. After the Republic fell, everything was different. From the fashions of the day, to the public lexicon, to the ordinary life of average citizens, the war left its imprint galaxywide far beyond just the prevailing form of government. It’s like the pace of the culture sped up to embrace new ideas and new priorities. Maul knows life passed many people by in the process. Years later, many citizens still seem befuddled on how to respond to the Empire.

He suspects that part of what people mean when they say they miss the old Republic is nostalgia for the past. When you step outside the ranks of the power players involved, it’s less longing for democratic elections and the Jedi Order than it is longing for a time before all that change. It’s the desire to return to a time when institutions were revered instead of feared. When public figures wielded words instead of weapons. When things were more predictable and secure. When people trusted.

That was Father’s big pitch all along—install him as Emperor and he’ll give you a safe and secure society. After years of civil war, many gladly made that compromise. But now, years in, they are starting to question that bargain. Because the images of slaughter in places like Mimban beg the question if the galaxy is either safe or secure. People gave up a lot for the Empire and now there are rumblings afoot that they want better in return. If the rebels handle the messaging right, they could tap into that latent discontent and exploit it.

“I hate war,” Rhea says again. “All those deaths over who was a Separatist and who was a Republic loyalist and none of that matters now. The war didn’t settle anything. It just paved the way for the Empire.”

“Right.” It was all according to Father’s plan.

In hindsight, the divisions between the Confederacy and the Republic systems now seem woefully inadequate to the cost of the war. Had the Senate been less highhanded about the situation, incremental reforms might have resolved the whole dispute. But that was never an option with a secret Sith lord in the Republic Chancellor’s office. 

“People need to know the truth,” he decides. “They need to know that the war was a waste and everyone lost in the end. The villains weren’t the Separatists, they were the Sith. But I can’t be the one to say that,” he sighs.

“Because you were one of them?”

“Yes. It also sounds preposterous since supposedly the Sith were defeated a thousand generations ago.” Maul shakes his head. “It’s more like some crackpot conspiracy theory paranoid extremists post on the holonet than the truth.”

“You’re right,” she concedes. “Few would believe it.”

This is the true dilemma of the rebel political movement: how much does the truth help you? How much does the truth hurt you? Does going public with the story of Darth Sidious win you public support or ridicule? So far, Mothma and Organa have decided the latter. They make speeches about civil rights and self-determination, but they never utter the words Light or Dark, Jedi or Sith. The secret subtext of the coming conflict is never publicly alluded to. 

“Do you think it is okay to hate war and still be a rebel?” Rhea now gives voice to what’s really troubling her.

“Well, Father isn’t just going to give up power,” he rationalizes. “There will be no change without war.”

“You’re saying it is a necessary evil?” she asks hopefully.

“Yes. That’s certainly the answer a Sith would give you.” Ends always justify the means on the side of the Shadow Force.

“And a Nightbrother?” she asks. “What would a Nightbrother say?”

He thinks a moment. “The Brothers mostly kept to themselves, but they would fight if need be. We were warriors who would accept a challenge.” He shrugs. “Even the Jedi fought wars. What the Light Side calls justice, the Dark Side calls revenge. But the distinction can be hard to locate sometimes.” More and more lately, the bright lines between Light and Dark seem to blur. 

“I just want to know that what we’re doing is right,” Rhea worries aloud. “That this is a just war. A good war, if there is such a thing . . .”

He responds with the bitter truth: “It will only be right—we will only be just—if we win.”

She nods. “If we lose, we’re terrorists.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure that Plagueis is better than your dad?”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Because I don’t want to exchange one tyrant Sith overlord for another,” she explains.

“Neither do I.” 

“I wish you could be the Emperor,” Rhea grumbles.

He smiles over at her for the vote of confidence. But they both know that the best he can hope for is to be the Apprentice.

“No one is doing what they are supposed to do, are they?” she harrumphs. “The Sith are now saving Jedi and trying to bring back the Republic.”

“True,” he concedes to the bizarre irony of the rebellion. But then, he puts the Dark Side spin on it: “We’re also getting revenge and killing the reigning Sith Master.”

“That Togruta Jedi was ready to kill you on Organa’s ship. She’s no peacekeeper,” Rhea observes tartly. “She’s not playing to type either.”

“She would say that she was bringing me to justice.”

“I think that Jedi is more Sith than you are,” Rhea grouses. 

He doesn’t take offense. Rhea is right that the traditional roles of the Jedi and the Sith have fallen by the wayside. But maybe that is a natural consequence of the destruction of the Jedi Order and the Sith finally toppling the Republic. What does it mean to be Sith now that they lack a goal and an enemy? He, Plagueis, and Father plot against each other by default. The conflicts are as personal as they are political, too. And Vader? Well, Vader’s a wildcard. Who knows what that guy’s agenda is?

It’s very unsettling really, these post-Republic, post-Jedi times. On some level, the universe skews hard to Darkness with four Sith lords in the mix of power. But then again, he and Plagueis are championing the institutions of the Light—for their own purposes, of course. Are they positioning the Light Side for a big comeback? Is that balance? He isn’t sure. Nothing makes much sense any longer. It’s like all the conventional wisdom has been thrown out the window. 

Why is the Force allowing this situation? And where is it all heading? Even Rhea senses it. She’s very Light in mindset, even if she’s trapped in the Dark world of his gang. And here she is today, worried about staying in the Light. She’s no student of the Force, so she wouldn’t phrase it that way. But the fact remains that she wants to do the right thing for the right reasons. It’s what bedevils her now. 

She’s not alone in her misgivings. He can’t shake the nagging suspicion that Plagueis might be on to something with his balance ideas. But that would make Father wrong and it would pit him against the will of the Force. That’s disaster in the making. 

His comlink sounds now. It’s his compound security wanting to know if he will grant permission for a ship to land. He does. 

“Plagueis?” Listening Rhea guesses even before the shadow of the big, showy yacht looms into view.

“Speak of the devil and he arrives,” he confirms peevishly. 

“Should you go inside?”

“No.” He’s perfectly comfortable hanging out here at the corner of his landing pad slumped against the fence with one leg propped up. He feels no compulsion to roll out the red carpet for his shifty co-conspirator. In fact, Maul pointedly ignores the fancy cruiser that settles down behind them, belching out exhaust gases as the whine of six ion engines decrescendos. He keeps himself turned away, determinedly looking out at the battle scarred Dathomir prairie like it’s fascinating.

Plagueis is here to debrief on the drama of his big Sith reveal, of course. But that doesn’t mean Maul has to make him feel welcome. He’s more than a little annoyed with the Muun who declined to speak on his behalf to the rebels.

He’s passive aggressive about it, too. “Why are you here?“ he barks at his uninvited guest without bothering to turn around.

Plagueis drags his tall carcass up beside them. He too faces the field of wreckage. “What are we looking at?” he demands, sounding like some grumpy grandpa. He peers at the unsightly vista and complains, “Are you ever going to clean that mess up?”

“No. I like it.”

Plagueis grunts. “You would. I forget you called a junkyard world home for a bit. Does this bring back memories? Or are you keeping all this rusty scrap for spare leg parts?”

Maul shoots him a resentful look. “You had to go there, didn’t you?”

“Actually, I wish I could have seen those spider legs.”

Wait a minute. He whirls. “How did you know—“

“Spider legs?” Rhea looks to him questioningly. She’s alarmed. 

He fumes at the Muun. Because telling Rhea he had a period of instability is one thing, but outlining the depths of his mental break is something different altogether. She doesn’t need to know he ate rats and skittered around on insect like appendages.

But, naturally, sly Plagueis can’t resist the juicy tale of his humiliation. “Oh, yes. Spider legs,” he assures Rhea. “Hasn’t he told you? They were a bit flamboyant by his current standards,” the Muun assesses. “That was creepy and bizarre of you, Lord Arachnid. But the chicken legs?” The towering Muun feigns horror. “Whatever were you thinking? Terrible choice.” 

“Chicken legs?” Rhea looks to him with more concern.

Plagueis takes that as his cue to mock him some more in a foreboding baritone. “Listen and I will tell you the tale of Darth Poultry, Dark Lord most fowl—“

“Stop,” he growls. He means it. 

The zombie Sith is undeterred. “Darth Capon? The Rooster Sith of Dathomir? You know, those horns kind of work for a rooster comb.”

“Stop,” he growls again. He really means it this time. 

“I could keep going, you know—“

“Leave him alone.” This time it’s Rhea growling.

“Standing by your man? It must be true love,” the very irritating Muun coos.

“Leave him alone,” Rhea growls again. She sounds like she means it too. 

Darth Plagueis the Wise is tickled as he leers, “So fierce for one so harmless.”

“Those chicken legs were fast,” Maul comments just to show he’s nonplussed by the razzing. “They were faster than these ones. And they weren’t chicken legs. They were raptor legs.”

“Well, then I stand corrected, Darth Dinosaur. Did Dooku know that you were the first Lord Tyrannosaurus?“ 

“He was Darth Tyranus.“

“Ah, yes, my mistake,” Plagueis smirks. “You know, I always wondered if Sheev dubbed Dooku Tyranus because he was such a creaky old fossil. What was he—eighty standard years?”

“He was a transitional figure and everyone knew it, probably him included.”

“Uhmm yes,” Plagueis agrees. “He was a means to an end.”

“Like me?” Maul challenges as his resentment surfaces anew.

“Hardly.” Plagueis fixes him with a reproachful look. “Sheev invested years in you. Poor Tyranus got a red sword and a title and then Sheev sent him on his way under the guise that he was a Jedi Master and needed no training. But what he really meant was why bother training the guy you’re going to set up to kill?” 

Next to him Rhea shifts uncomfortably at this plain speaking. The Muun notices. “We are a tough bunch, my dear, or haven’t you heard? Danger stalks the Sith.”

“Stop scaring her,” Maul shoots the Muun a quelling glance. He turns to Rhea and suggests, “Why don’t you go inside? Take refuge from his bad jokes.”

“Of course,” she immediately defers like he knew she would. 

“My lady,” Muun executes a formal bow to honor her retreat like she’s an Empress, not his housemaid. There’s nothing ironic or mocking about it, either. The giant zombie Muun is a smooth lady’s man, like always. 

“My lord,” Rhea whispers softly as she takes her leave. And is it his imagination or does Rhea have the ghost of a smile about her lips like she’s charmed? 

That damned Muun watches her leave too. Ogling his skinny girl’s meager backside that barely shows through her work uniform dress. “Lovely girl,” he comments with sincerity. “Such an unforgettable face.”

“Like yours,” Maul sneers.

Plagueis has been here all of five minutes and already Maul has had enough of him. It’s irritating how the Muun always seems to be having a grand time. Smirking and chuckling like the Dark Side is a hoot and it’s no big deal that his Apprentice stole his Empire and put a permanent hole in his head. Where’s the angst? Where’s the aggrieved animus? Where’s the obsession with revenge? Instead, Plagueis seems to have taken his defeat in stride. He treats this latest war like it’s a fun project that he dabbles in during his spare time between buying art, hoodwinking Jedi fugitives, and seducing women. 

Look at him—he’s hideous and he doesn’t seem the least bit diminished by it. He flits around the galaxy like some bored mogul in retirement. If he’s worried Father will show up for round two, the Muun sure doesn’t show it. The guy is entirely too relaxed. And that’s all wrong—as a rule, the Sith are intense. Plagueis should be raging and fretting like he is. Worried that his comeback will fail and he will be consigned to obscurity forever. Terrified that he will let down the awesome legacy of his Father-Master Darth Sidious and his formidable Mother Witch mama. That he will amount to nothing despite all his training and potential.

Where is Plagueis’ self-doubt? Where are his regrets? Maul’s resentment at the Muun is fueled in large part by his jealousy. He wishes he could be as suave and casual, but it’s not in his nature to be either of those things. Plagueis is the billionaire dilettante Sith—the fun one. And Father is the smooth-talking politician Sith—the respectable one. And him? Well, he’s the brooding, skulking underworld Sith. The failure who Father didn’t bother to kill since he judged him not to be a threat. He’s a loser. And that rankles. Father always said a Sith should have a life of significance.

Maul shifts feral yellow eyes over to his guest as he hisses, “Why are you here again?”

“To gloat over your narrowly averted disaster,” Plagueis answers evenly.

“What disaster? There was no disaster. You overestimate the situation.”

The Muun smiles slow and wide. “Bet you were here for days quaking in those metal boots of yours. Wondering if now that your cover is blown, will the rebels toss you out on your ear—“

“I hold their entire army,” he sniffs.

“My army.”

“Our army.”

“Claiming sweat equity, are you?”

“Possession is nine-tenths of—“

“Whatever.” Plagueis cuts him off with an impatient wave. “I can afford to buy another one,” he brags.

And now, Plagueis starts in on the conversation he came for. “Bail told me all about it. That Togruta was on the table all dramatic denunciations while you stood there steadfast with her sword tip to your throat. Well done, well done,” he commends. “When you bluff, you must commit to it.”

“I wasn’t bluffing,” he grumbles. 

“And Maul, you sly dog, why didn’t you tell me this was a rematch? That you and that angry Togruta have history?”

He crosses his arms. “There was no rematch. I never even pulled my sword.”

“I had to hear from Bail a thirdhand account of how years ago you attempted to recruit her to your side.”

“It didn’t work.”

“But you still tried, eh? My boy, when a Sith attempts to seduce a Jedi—“

“At the time, she wasn’t a Jedi and I was no longer a Sith.”

“—that’s momentous. You never forget your first, you know. Luring the Light is a big day in a Sith’s life.” The Muun beams down at him with approval.

It makes him uncomfortable. He disavows, “I am no longer Sith.”

“Renounced us, have you? Lord Maul, the rebels might believe that line, but it won’t work on me.”

He looks away. “Father renounced me long ago.”

Plagueis grunts. “Once a Sith, always a Sith. It’s like being a little bit pregnant. You are, or you aren’t,” he declares. “Darkness marks a man forever.”

“You’re not Sith either. Not really. Not with your balance ideas,” he shoots back. Somewhere in the Force, dead Darth Bane is horrified at this heretic. Bane, Vitiate, Exar Kune, Marka Ragnos, Malgus, and all the rest of the pantheon of storied Dark heroes are probably cursing this iconoclast Muun for his newfangled ideas that profane the religion they fought and died for.

Does Plagueis see his skepticism? He must. For he proclaims, “I am a new Sith for a new age of enlightenment and acceptance. Maul, we must change with the times. We must let the Force lead us, even if it’s to places we fear to tread.”

Maul slants him some side eye. “You sound like you actually believe that.”

“I do. Moreover, you do too. Casting overtures to the Light as far back as the end of the war and now again for our rebellion. An alliance between Light and Dark has power—no, don’t deny it!” Darth Plagueis is very pleased. “It was your instinct back then even as it is now. That, Lord Maul, is the Force at work.” 

“I tried that line on Skywalker’s Padawan. It didn’t work,” he grumbles.

“You lost the battle but won the war. Always you must listen to your instincts. Let the Force guide you,” the Muun teaches. And now, he brings more praise. “Sheev taught you well, Lord Maul. You have hoodwinked the rebels very effectively. There was never any real risk that your past sins would not be forgiven. Moreover, you impressed Organa with your cool head against the threatening Jedi.”

“She’s good with those swords,” he remarks offhand. “She’s a skilled combatant. Lady Tano will be a formidable ally.”

“No, she won’t,” the elder Sith counters. “When the opportunity presents itself, I want you to kill her.”

Maul’s eyes narrow. He says nothing. 

“Set her up for the Empire or do it yourself,” the Muun gives him carte blanche on the method. “I care not how it’s done,” he instructs breezily. “Just get rid of her when convenient.”

“She’s very good.”

Plagueis shrugs. “We don’t need her. We have you.”

“She could be an excellent lure for Vader,” he persists. 

“Leave Vader to me.”

“To you? Are you coming out of retirement? Better strengthen your sword arm, old man. But I call dibs. I’ve already told the rebels I’m going to kill Vader.”

“Leave Vader to me.”

“Don’t think I’m up to it?” he bristles.

“Your destiny lies along a different path,” Plagueis responds. “We don’t need that Togruta to get to Vader. He will come to us. I have an ace up my sleeve.”

Maul is intrigued. “Care to share?”

“When the time is right,” the Muun puts him off. Father always did complain that his Master kept too many secrets. 

“Who better than Ahsoka Tano to manipulate Vader?” he argues back. Maybe it’s ridiculous for two Sith to be bickering over killing a Jedi. Well, two sort-of Sith. But the point is that killing Jedi is what Sith do. Or what they are supposed to do. Well, maybe not any more. It’s a testament to how bizarre things have become now that a Sith Master learns the Light even as he plots to unseat his upstart Apprentice. Things are very confused with the Force currently. The old orthodoxies twist over on themselves. The Dark Side has become Lighter, and the Light Side seems to be trending Darker these days if Lady Tano is any example. The bright line distinctions now fade. Everything is in flux. Change is coming.

But Maul still thinks killing the Tano woman is the wrong strategic decision. He contends, “Vader was her Master. The Jedi had no family. Their Padawans filled those emotional roles. We should use her first before we kill her.”

“She’s not going to kill Vader.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that? She was ready to kill me.”

“She’s more likely to try and turn her old Master back to the Light.” 

Maul snorts. “Good luck with that. They don’t call him the Jedi Killer for nothing.”

“Just kill her. We don’t need her and she might become a disruption.”

“Worried that if Vader turns, the Jedi will reemerge? Because I give both those events a very remote probability. She’s more likely to turn Dark than he is Light.”

The Muun now probes, “Is this about Kenobi? Because she won’t lead you to Kenobi. Keeping her alive won’t help your revenge quest.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Actually, I do. Lord Maul, kill her and let’s move on.” Plagueis is getting impatient. Or is it defensive? 

He digs in. “I’ll kill her but only after I get the Fulcrum program up and running.”

“Fine. But don’t take too long.”

Maul can’t help but wonder whether the day will come when Plagueis will order his own execution. This crafty Muun has got a much grander plan than he reveals, Maul is certain. Father always said Plagueis was a master at deception. He played the long game with multiple outcomes he would refine or discard along the way as things developed. Old Plagueis tended to his plots like a garden, Father once remarked. Pruning and weeding along the way. 

How he wishes he had the Muun’s skills and confidence. Hell, his immortal status basically makes Plagueis the default winner in the long run. Maul can’t compete with that. But it doesn’t mean he can’t still find a way to matter. Being the Master was never the goal anyway. He’s always been fine to be the Apprentice. In the Rule of Two, he’ll gladly be number two. And actually, that ought to make him the ideal choice for the role. He hopes Plagueis recognizes that.

But he challenges, “How does this help your balance agenda? I thought you liked the Jedi now. Wait—maybe Ahsoka Tano could be your Jedi Master since you’re a Padawan,” he jeers.

Darth Plagueis the Wise is not amused. “Just kill her.”

“Very well, my lord,” he agrees.

  
  



	24. chapter 24

“Dantooine. They’re on Dantooine,” Rhea tells Old Archie as together they pace one of the armament warehouses on Lothal.

“Gotcha,” the local lieutenant nods. “And the heavy guns?”

“They stay here. Only these assault rifles and the other small arms on the list go to Dantooine. Oh, and that dozen speeder bikes we talked about earlier, too.”

“You’re moving a lot of product there.”

She nods. “This could be just the beginning. We’re trying to develop that customer,” she lies. The customer is, of course, the rebels. The location of their new training base is need-to-know information and Old Archie doesn’t need to know. It protects him and it protects them. Treason is a deadly business, after all. 

The Dantooine base is an idea Maul cooked up with Major Draven. They want all the new Fulcrum operatives to have some basic military and intelligence training before they go into the field. That concept then grew to include training infantry volunteers to reinforce the local uprising on Mimban. If all goes well, Maul plans for the Dantooine camp to be a prototype for future training bases to be located across the Rim. 

That’s where she comes in. The rebels will oversee the actual training, but Rhea is the point person for the setup of the base itself. That means moving supplies and equipment there from Lothal. It means overseeing quick construction of the onsite prefab barracks and training facilities. It also means arranging for everything from laundry facilities to a small infirmary and a commissary.

It’s not the same thing as helping to run the sprawling Dathomir compound, but Rhea’s housemaid experience positions her well to understand all the various details that must be managed and the barebones staff that will be required. Unlike the compound where most of the staff is human, the rebel base will be maintained entirely by droids. The fewer sentient beings who know the purpose of the Dantooine camp, the better. 

Setting up the small base is a challenge that Rhea is doing her best to meet. It’s actually quite doable given there is no limit on the credits she can spend to rush construction and deliveries. The hard part is the time constraint. Maul wants it done yesterday, but he’ll settle for a month. To offset the pressure of the aggressive timeline, he fully supports her efforts. Maul assigns her a ship and a pilot at her disposal to come and go as needed from Dathomir. She is excused completely from her housemaid duties so she can focus fulltime on the project.

Initially, Rhea was concerned with how that news would be received, worried that people would assume that she has earned the opportunity by sleeping with the boss. But, as it turns out, the housekeeping staff were delighted for her. Gruff mother figure Mrs. Nettles was bursting with pride and worldly big sister stand-in Marisol couldn’t have been more effusive. As longtime Crimson Dawn members, they know how hard it is for a woman to get ahead in the gang. And rather than begrudge her new responsibility, they see it as progress for their sisterhood. 

The women’s unexpected approval is an affirmation that has been missing in Rhea’s life for a long time. Seeing their happiness for her success is important. It allows Rhea to give herself permission to feel proud, too. It’s not anything Rhea thought she would ever feel about her gang job, but for the first time she does. That matters . . . a lot. For suddenly—almost inexplicably—Rhea feels okay with how things have evolved since the war. 

Life doesn’t have to look like you planned in order for it to be good, she’s learning. Success isn’t always how you imagined it to be. Love isn’t either. Rhea knows that some people would say that she is settling. That her standards are too low. That her moral compass is broken. That there’s nothing about plotting treason with your violent, crime lord boss lover that should make you proud. But circumstances have forced Rhea to confront her life with vigorous realism. She’s now salvaging what she can of her past misfortunes and bad decisions. In the process, she is groping towards happiness and creeping towards purpose. It’s empowering.

She didn’t know it that first night she arrived on Dathomir, but she was pressing the reset button on her life. Maul’s big comeback is turning out to be her big comeback as well. They’re in this together, but it’s helping them both as individuals, too.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of cross-galaxy flights, construction meetings, and lengthy comcalls. Now that the Dantooine camp is nearly complete, Rhea has a long list of organizational tasks and procurement items. That’s why she’s here on Lothal loading up a few more things. After an hour with Archie for a brief stopover, it’s on to Dantooine to check on the progress.

Everyone working on the project locally thinks that they are setting up a training outpost for gang members. Like with Maul’s weapons purchases, Crimson Dawn’s violent reputation provides an easy cover story. Rhea volunteers little information and she receives very few questions. It helps that the gang already has a presence elsewhere on Dantooine. They are already known to the locals.

Crimson Dawn also gives novice Rhea credibility with her general contractor and suppliers. They know she’s good for the credits they are spending and they are anxious to avoid mishaps and delays that will result in a dispute. No one wants to pick a fight with a notorious spice gang. Everyone knows it won’t be settled by litigation, but by violence.

If anyone questions why someone so young and inexperienced is in her role, no one speaks up. The professionals she works with probably figure that she’s accountable up the chain of command and they will be held to account as well. The men all make their suggestions tactfully, and only once or twice does someone take her aside to urge her to rethink a decision. Maybe that’s because she tends to accept their advice. Rhea is very happy to accept advice.

All the respect is reassuring, but it does little to keep Rhea from feeling like an imposter in her role. First, she was a clueless housemaid masquerading as Maul’s assistant to the rebels. Now, after almost a yearlong crash course in weapons dealing, she really is Maul’s assistant for his rebellion work. But that job has morphed from outfitting an army to assembling a base for an army. With each passing day, she’s sinking deeper and deeper into treason. 

When she arrives on Dantooine today, she discovers that last week’s progress did not accomplish all her goals. Weather kept the permacrete poured for the new landing pad from hardening and the secondary power generator is still on backorder. Construction is endlessly frustrating, Rhea is learning. It’s one delay after another. What’s worse—the delays tend to pile up since many installation tasks must be done in a specific order. Her job is to keep plugging away at progress. But there are days—like today—when she feels discouraged. She’s accomplished so much, but there are still so many little things left to be completed. 

After two days on Dantooine living out of her ship, it’s back home to Dathomir. With all the transit time, she’s been gone four days when her shuttle settles down on the compound landing pad. It’s late. Close to midnight local time. But in the corner under the floodlights stands a familiar figure. The sight brings a smile to her face.

Some Sith’s ladies—well, a lot of them, Rhea suspects—waited by lonely landing pads, marked the hours at windswept homesteads, or stood watch at foreboding castles. All in fretful anticipation of their beloved coming home. But not Rhea. Her role is reversed. She’s the lady who comes home to her Dark lord. For tonight, like always when she returns, Maul waits for her. Perhaps it’s surprising that a man who can have flashes of possessiveness gives her the freedom to come and go as she pleases. But Maul is far less controlling than she expects. He gives her responsibility and wants her to fulfill it. It’s some of his Nightbrother background showing, she thinks. Maul spent his formative years around very capable women who took charge. But Rhea also likes to think that as their relationship has deepened, he feels more secure. He trusts her and she trusts him.

“Safe and sound, Sir,” the pilot at her side reports to the boss.

Maul nods. “Thank you.” He dismisses the man who heads in the direction of the compound barracks.

Maul’s got his shirt on, but it’s open and hanging unfastened like he just threw it over his shoulders to go outside. Little beads of sweat show on the red and black rippling chest beneath. It’s a telltale sign that Maul has been swinging his sword and swinging it hard. “Been training?” she smiles as she walks up.

“It’s good for me,” he answers. His words are a little clipped. “I needed it today.” He grabs for the small overnight bag she’s carrying as together they head inside. “How was the flight?”

“Long. But I slept.”

“Hungry?”

“No, not really. It’s too late to eat.”

“Any progress to report?”

“Yes, but I still have a punchlist two screens long,” she sighs. Rhea is disappointed that she can’t announce that she’s done on schedule.

Yellow eyes slant over to her. “Remember that it’s a training camp, not a five-star resort.”

“I know. But I want it to be nice.”

“It’s a training camp. Not our home.”

“I know. I brought back another holovid tour so you can see what’s left to finish.”

“Good.”

“What’s new here?” she asks for his update. Maul seems stressed. The man has a surprisingly long fuse, making him deceptively high strung. He tends to cloak his rage with his quiet soft-spoken veneer until he finally gives full vent to his anger. Usually with more violence than words. The telltale signs of unease are all present tonight. The tight jaw, the terse words, the late-night sword practice. He’s upset about something.

When he doesn’t answer, she casually fishes. “Did your guy get the Jedi on Bracca yet?”

“Not yet. That one is proving to be elusive. But I’ve got a lead on a new Jedi. This time it’s a real Jedi.”

“That’s good news.”

“It’s the only good news,” he grumbles.

“More trouble with the Hutts?” she guesses.

“They killed two more of our guys today.”

“Oh, no.” Rhea stops short at the news.

“They didn’t even bother trying to make it look like an accident this time. Our men were intercepted during a shipment. The Hutts boarded, ejected them out the airlock, and made off with the ship and the cargo.”

“How horrible!” she exclaims. No one wants to die frozen and asphyxiated in the cold, dark vacuum of space.

“The Hutts sent Uli a holovid of the whole thing. They must have brought a camera bot along with them. It was all very staged. Our guys surrendered but they still killed them. They clearly planned to kill them. It wasn’t about the spice at all.”

Rhea gulps. “So this is more provocation?”

Maul nods. “They must think that a gang war is coming and they want to start it on their own terms, at the time and place of their choosing. Come,” he resumes walking. 

Rhea has to leap to catch up with his purposeful long strides. “But you’re going to retaliate? Right?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Maul, you have to retaliate.” Rhea is firm. This is how a gang works. You are loyal to the gang and the gang is loyal to you. You protect the gang and the gang protects you, even if it’s after you’re dead. 

Maul’s mouth twists. “I don’t want to give them the war they want. Whatever we do, it will be proportionate. Uli’s talking to his best Hutt contacts tomorrow to see what they’ve been told to say. We’ll go from there.”

“Who were our men who died?”

“A pilot and a navigator. Two of our best for the Kessel Run. They were very experienced guys who didn’t make mistakes and weren’t known for taking chances.”

“You’re saying—“

“I think the Pikes told the Hutts where and when to find them.”

“The shipment originated with the Pikes?” she squeaks. 

“Yes,” Maul confirms grimly.

“That’s not good,” Rhea remarks under her breath. Maul’s news keeps getting worse.

“The Pikes will deny it, of course. But if they are secretly aligned with the Hutts against me, then I definitely don’t want a war.”

They’re at the side entrance to his private wing now. Maul waves a hand to activate the door with the Force and steps aside to let her enter first. When she pauses on the threshold, he confesses his true frustration. “I can’t fight the Hutts, the Pikes, and the Empire all at once.” Maul is used to navigating thorny gang politics, but this is an especially inconvenient time for it to flare up. 

She nods. “We don’t have to talk about this.” She doesn’t want to dwell on his troubles. She knows Maul will brood plenty before he makes a decision. The man is nothing if not deliberate.

Sometimes, with all their focus on organizing the rebellion, it’s easy to forget that Maul runs a major crime syndicate. It’s a big job, and a dangerous one. Full of treacherous so-called allies and double-crossing customers and suppliers. Being a gang boss is equally, if not more, dangerous than treason in some respects. For while Maul’s methods can be brutal, so can his competitors’. 

“Come inside and show me that video,” he grumbles. “Get my mind off it.”

Once they are in his private office, Rhea activates the holodisk with the recording she made this morning on Dantooine. It’s twenty minutes of her walking methodically through the new camp pointing out the progress and the remaining tasks to be finished. 

“It’s looking almost complete,” Maul remarks at the end as Rhea gets up to turn the projector off.

“I’m close. I’m really close,” she nods.

“Well done, little one, well done,” he commends.

Rhea can feel her face flush at the praise. As always, she has trouble taking a compliment. Even one that is merited. She looks down and mumbles, “I’m keeping notes on what to do differently next time . . . if there is a next time . . . ”

“There will be a next time. When the rebels see this camp, they are going to want five more like it immediately.”

Rhea groans, “I was afraid you were going to say that,” even if secretly she is pleased.

“Raddus wants a main base and several satellites. He thinks he has scoped out the perfect spot. Some moon in the Yavin system where there’s already a small encampment.”

“Yavin? Never heard of it.”

“That’s it’s big appeal. I’m proud of you. I mean it.” Maul now looks quizzically at her. “Are you proud of you? Because you should be.”

“I guess . . . well, yes. But I missed the deadline.”

“That was a false deadline.”

“I know.” She nods, and now confesses her nagging fear. “Will this base even matter?” Maul’s pensive, frustrated mood must be rubbing off on her because she laments, “I want it to matter, but I don’t think it will.”

“What do you mean?”

She plops back down heavily on the couch beside him as she explains. “We both know that this war won’t be settled by tanks and blasters. It will be settled by you and Vader going man-to-man with swords somewhere. And then afterwards, probably in your father’s palace . . . in his throne room with you and Plagueis. Right?”

“Yes and no.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Power must be perceived as legitimate in order to be effective and lasting,” Maul explains. “That’s why Father courted public opinion consistently throughout his career. He seized power, yes, but he did it to near universal acclaim. That was key. And it’s why our rebellion must be understood to be a popular uprising and not a coup d’etat. There will have to be a war. Because when things come to fruition, we must have the weight of the galaxy’s peoples unified behind our cause, and not just our own ambitions.”

“What does that matter?” she grumbles. “If Vader and the Emperor are dead, that’s all that matters.”

“No, it’s not. We might end up exchanging the Empire for chaos.”

“Chaos?” she echoes in surprise.

“Yes, chaos. If this turns into merely an assassination plot, then we run the risk that we topple the Empire but there is no consensus for what should take its place. Then, there will be a lot of regional governors running around cutting deals with admirals and generals for power and protection.”

“Oh. Where would that leave us?” she worries.

Maul is blunt. “In a bloody civil war with multiple enemies probably. We’ll be the underdogs then for certain,” he sighs. 

“I guess I hadn’t thought of a scenario in which we win against the Emperor but we’re not in control,” she confesses.

“Let’s hope that it doesn’t come to that,” Maul harrumphs. “It’s true that Father manipulated the Clone Wars into fruition but the underlying tensions between the Confederacy and the Republic were real and longstanding. Father didn’t create them. He stoked them and used them. They are still there under the surface, masked by the veneer of Empire. If ever Father’s regime falls, whatever replaces him will need to confront those tensions and keep them in check. Mark my words, they will reassert themselves quickly. It will be a free-for-all if ambitious men with capital ships and armies compete for power as the dominant systems line up alliances.”

She nods soberly as his words sink in. “The galaxy has a lot of different systems . . . ” she says warily.

“Yes, and they are not all humanoid Core worlds,” Maul asserts. “There are an awful lot of alien worlds out there that want a say in things. Nute Gunray might be gone but his cause isn’t. The issue of corruption still persists in the Empire. And the inequalities between the Core and the Rim are as bad as they ever were,” Maul observes sourly. “If we succeed in this revolution, little one, ruling the galaxy won’t be easy.”

“You sound like a Separatist,” she accuses playfully. She’s trying to lighten the mood.

But Maul considers the comment seriously. “I probably am a Separatist in many ways. Their complaints resonate with me. I might have been raised a Core patrician, but that’s not who I began life as. The Republic the rebels revere was in desperate need of reform. I’m not sure Bail Organa and Mon Mothma see that,” he observes. “They’re just too Core and too human in their mindset. Back in the day, only the outsiders could see it.”

Intrigued, Rhea asks, “And Plagueis? Does he have Separatist leanings too?”

“Naturally. He’s a Muun. Don’t forget that he dreamt up Father’s playbook. Plagueis was the one to recognize the brewing interregional conflicts that a privileged Core aristocrat like Sheev Palpatine would never have noticed. Now that he’s in power, Father pays those problems mere lip service. He doesn’t need those talking points to get elected any longer. But mark my words, whoever leads the galaxy after Father will need to address those issues. Those are real issues. If there ever is another Republic, it could easily fail again,” he warns.

“You think the rebels are naïve? Is that it?”

He shrugs. “More like idealistic. They think voting will solve every grievance. It won’t.” Maul is especially critical now. “The Republic functioned best in the years when it was a true melting pot. When wealth was less concentrated and anyone with ingenuity and drive could make a name for themselves. Opportunity has become too entrenched now. That matters because when the gulf between the Haves and the Have Nots gets too big, democracy won’t satisfy people.”

“Yes, you are definitely sounding like a Separatist,” she teases.

“I don’t know,” Maul muses. “I think I am more populist than Separatist. Community is how I was first raised on Dathomir. That sense of duty to others has long been missing from most of the galaxy. It’s a shame, really. Because when people have a sense of community, they have shared priorities and values. Those are the building blocks for consensus and compromise, which is essential to democracy. A galaxy full of people who only care about their own concerns will be a disaster for a new Republic.”

“So . . . what’s the solution?”

“Another strongman leader who will impose an agenda.”

“You mean a new Emperor?”

“Yes.”

“Emperor Plagueis?” Rhea guesses where this is heading.

“Unclear. I’m not sure that’s his goal.” Maul sits back and frowns. “All along, Plagueis wanted Father to be the public figurehead while he stayed in the shadows. I wonder if that is what he will want this time around.”

“Would that make you the Emperor?” she asks hopefully.

“It might. I’m not sure.”

“You would make a good Emperor,” she declares. If there has to be an Emperor instead of an elected Supreme Chancellor, she’ll be happy with Maul in charge.

It’s clearly an outcome Maul has thought a lot about. He speaks slowly and thoughtfully now. “It’s not an easy job. But Father doesn’t even try too hard at it. It’s like he got the power and that’s all he wanted.” Maul shakes his head and frowns.

“He’s a Sith. Isn’t power the point?” Rhea grumbles.

“Yes, but power needs a purpose. Years ago, we set out to improve the galaxy by ruling it. Maybe that was just gaslighting for me as an impressionable kid. But I really believed that what we planned would benefit everyone in the long run. That we would lift the galaxy to an excellence that democracy with its emphasis on compromise would never reach . . . ”

“You thought you were doing the right thing,” Rhea realizes softly. This is a spin on the Sith plot to implode the Republic that she hasn’t heard before. The bad guys—well, at least this bad guy—thought he was helping people. 

“I never thought Father would end up such a tyrant,” Maul admits. For in some ways, Rhea sees, he was as hoodwinked by Sheev Palpatine as the rest of the galaxy.

Maul’s face takes on the plaintive cast it often gets when he speaks of the past. “I spent years training and planning for a future that never came. Sometimes I wonder if any of it mattered . . . if it ever will matter . . . ”

Yikes! This conversation has come full circle. Maul’s the one worried and having doubts now. It prompts her to double down on her cheerleading. “You’re still going to matter,” Rhea announces firmly. “We’re both going to matter. I promise.”

Those bloodshot yellow eyes condescend wistfully now. “You’re so young. I was once young like you.”

“You usually tell me I’m Light,” she reminds Maul with a brightness they both know is a bit forced.

“You’re that too. You’re good energy, little one. Young and Light is what I need. Especially today.” Maul reaches an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close into his side. It’s not a lover’s embrace, but a supportive hug.

“It will all work out,” she soothes. “With the Hutts, with the Pikes, and with the rebels. In the end, it will be fine.” It’s the mantra that Rhea has inwardly told herself for years during moments of uncertainty and crisis. _It will be fine_. She’s become something of an expert at coping. Maul has too, she knows. 

They don’t talk like this very often. The issue of how Maul’s role in the rebellion will play out long term is a topic Rhea mostly avoids and he doesn’t often raise. For her part, that’s because she fears how Maul will react to his father. She’s worried that he will ultimately betray the rebels to the Emperor and still be spurned by his unforgiving parent. That in the end, everyone will lose. And Maul? Well, he says things like ‘one day at a time,’ ‘we shall see,’ and ‘the future is always in motion’ as he pushes off her fears. Rhea knows that he’s very skeptical of Lord Plagueis and worries that he will be used and then discarded. It’s why Maul was reluctant to sign up for the rebel cause in the first place. But by now, he’s very invested. So is she. For herself, for Maul, and for the galaxy. 

But while their talk of the distant future is sparse and mostly filled with doubts and warnings to her, that’s not because she and Maul aren’t open with each other. It’s more a statement on how fluid things are. There are many different ways this could play out, Maul has told her repeatedly. He won’t commit to one path. Don’t get your heart set on a particular outcome, he cautions, because there are no guarantees. The disappointment and disillusionment underlying those words makes her heart ache for him. It’s Rhea’s cue to tell Maul that as long as they are together, she will accept any conclusion. Because she is loyal to him more than she is loyal to any cause. Love and family will always trump politics and power for her. 

Looking up now at his handsome profile crowned by a circle of horns, she murmurs, “How can I help you? What do you need tonight?”

“I think I need to train a little more. I’m too keyed up to sleep. Go to bed, little one.”

“Alright.” She leans over to kiss his cheek and whispers, “Tomorrow will be better.”

“Let’s hope. I will send that holovid tour to Raddus and Draven.”

“Don’t you want a more high-level summary for them?”

“No. Let’s send them all the details. They can make the call for when to commence operations. I say we open Dantooine now as is.”

“You’re serious!” she gulps.

“Yes. It’s close enough.”

It turns out that Raddus and Draven are as anxious as Maul is to open the Dantooine camp. And so, a week later, Rhea’s punchlist is down to one screen and forty people are now in residence. Rhea was present yesterday afternoon when everyone arrived to help settle them in. Bright and early today, she’s waiting at the landing pad as a small, inobtrusive Crimson Dawn transport descends. It’s carrying Maul and a few other rebels who will attend the morning’s welcome and kickoff meeting.

But as Rhea waits, a lone figure walks down from Maul’s ship. It’s that Togruta who pulled two swords on Maul on the _Tantive IV_. Ahsoka Tano, the Jedi who arrested him on Mandalore and then freed him so she could save her own skin. 

Rhea eyes her with open hostility as she prances up. Just like you can have positive chemistry and immediate attraction to another person, you can have instinctive dislike at first sight as well. Rhea has just this sort of negative reaction to Ahsoka Tano. The Jedi brings out the worst in her. 

The Togruta’s shoulders are back, her arms are swinging, and her hips are swaying with what can only be described as a strut. A pair of lightsabers bounce with her every step and she’s got a pistol strapped to her lower leg. She’s wearing armor on her forearms, lower legs, and her outfit. Altogether, it’s a showy display of weaponry. This woman came prepared to fight.

From what Maul has told her, Ahsoka Tano can’t be more than a few years older than Rhea. But it seems like at least ten years, maybe more. Part of it is the Jedi’s easy self-confidence. But part of it is the Togruta’s white facial markings that seem to highlight the deep furrows between her brows and the pronounced downturn to the corners of her lips. It’s like the Jedi has a permanent expression of displeasure etched on her still young face. That’s longtime unhappiness showing, Rhea perceives. 

Well, she'll get no sympathy from her. “Where’s Maul?” Rhea demands.

“On the ship still.” The Togruta correctly reads her expression of concern. “He’s fine. He’s wiping the navicomputer so it won’t show where we’ve been.”

Rhea exhales. “Good. Where are the others?”

“It’s just us today. Change of plans.”

“Okay.”

“We were never actually introduced. I’m Ahsoka Tano. You are?”

“Rhea Cardulla.”

Neither woman offers to shake hands. 

“And you are Maul’s--??” The Jedi raises her eyebrows expectantly.

Rhea’s answer is cool. “I am the Crimson Dawn Lieutenant for the rebellion project.”

The statement fails to impress the Togruta who is evidently clueless about gang hierarchy. “What does that mean exactly?”

“I’m his assistant. I’m the one who oversaw the construction of this encampment,” Rhea adds proudly.

The Jedi digests this information before she observes, “You’re a loyal assistant.”

“There are a lot of us at Crimson Dawn who depend on him. We’re a big operation.”

Again, Togruta fails to be impressed. “You don’t like me.”

“Well, you pulled a sword on Maul when I first met you.”

“It wasn’t the best introduction,” the Jedi admits. She explains, “I was surprised to see him. Very surprised. I thought he was dead.”

“No one can kill Maul,” Rhea boasts.

The Jedi ignores her. “I never thought I’d see the day when I would fight alongside a Sith. These are strange times. You know the Empire is bad when it brings people like Maul and I together to oppose it.”

“Stop that!” Rhea immediately bristles. “Stop talking about him like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s beneath you! Maul built the rebel army at considerable risk. He built this camp. He’s proven his commitment, so you can stop with the cracks and the insinuations.” Rhea shoots the other woman a reproachful look. “You Jedi types always were a little too smug.”

The woman just nods slowly as she assesses Rhea further. “You are a very loyal assistant.”

“That’s right, I am,” Rhea snaps back, crossing her arms and popping out her hip. She’s not normally an aggressive person. Except around this woman.

“Ladies.” It’s Maul’s high tenor rasp. “Am I interrupting something?” His yellow eyes are twinkling. Evidently, he’s enjoying the slight dustup he’s walked into. 

“Sir!” Rhea can’t help but flush and smile at his arrival.

The Togruta smiles too, but the expression is tight and never reaches her eyes. 

Looking from one woman to the other, Maul smirks at both of them. He no doubt senses the tension. “No need to grill Lady Tano, I’m safe and sound, Rhea. I’m in one piece.”

“More like half a piece,” the sour Jedi indulges in some snark. 

Maul actually chuckles. Then, he sneers, “I’m still alive, my lady, which is more than most of your brethren can say.”

“Stop calling me ‘my lady.’”

“So be it, Jedi.”

“I’m not a Jedi.”

Maul turns back to Rhea now. “Where are the others?”

“Inside. They’re waiting. Follow me, Sir.” She nods to the Togruta. “You too, my lady Jedi.”

“Rhea, be nice to my character assassin,” Maul snickers in mock reproof. “She’s our guest.”

Thoroughly unrepentant Rhea dutifully nods. “Yes, Sir. Right this way, Sir.” With a disdainful glance the Jedi’s way, she announces, “Now that you’re here, Sir, we’re ready to begin.”

Maul, Draven, and Raddus have jointly devised a two-week training program for the Fulcrum operatives and the Mimban volunteers. It’s a crash course in everything you need to know to subvert the Empire. It covers everything from combat strategy and self-defense, to surveillance and espionage tactics, to communication and encryption methods. The program will be run on-site by a white-haired Republic veteran named Jan Dodonna. Maul much preferred that Major Draven supervise things on Dantooine, Rhea knows. But unfortunately, the rebels’ secret spymaster can’t disappear unnoticed for two weeks from his Imperial military post. And since Draven is very valuable embedded within the enemy ranks, Maul backed down. But he wasn’t happy about the choice of the self-proclaimed ‘General’ Dodonna. 

The man is an Imperial navy defector who abandoned his command of a star destroyer to start his own homegrown rebellion. Dodonna is a true believer who currently runs a large, successful, and aggressive rebel cell in the Yavin system where Senators Organa and Mothma want to locate their main base of operations. That’s largely why Dodonna got the command here at Dantooine. He’s auditioning for the role at the future rebel stronghold. 

Dodonna may be popular with the rebel Senators, but Maul is not a fan. He thinks the man is a bombastic blowhard who’s more interested in headline grabbing stunts and rhetoric than actual warfare. Maul argued hard for one of the more extremist rebels, a man named Saw Gerrera, to get the post at Dantooine. Rhea had lurked in the background of a heated comcall debate, listening to Maul assert that the rebels need a combat tested, battle hardened veteran insurgent like Gerrera to train their most essential personnel. But apparently, that was a non-starter. Senator Mothma vetoed Gerrera, saying the man represented a faction of supporters she did not want to encourage. And so, Maul was forced to accept the consensus for Dodonna. Rhea had to smother a giggle at Maul’s face when Senator Mothma thanked him for being a team player. Afterwards, Maul had complained that Saw Gerrera’s example is exactly what will make the rebellion successful. But he has to be careful about advocating that view too strenuously given his reveal as a former Sith lord makes him a bit of an extremist himself. 

That means today General Dodonna is running the show. Maul is introduced with Raddus and Draven as the triumvirate founding fathers of the rebellion military. Rhea is introduced as Maul’s personal assistant. No mention is made of Crimson Dawn. Does anyone recognize the prominent gang insignia that hangs around Maul’s neck? It matches the patch on the upper left arm of the uniform dress that Rhea’s wearing as well as the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. The Togruta Jedi and Cassian Andor, the young spy Rhea met on Lothal, know about their background, of course. But do the other Fulcrum operatives and the new Mimban recruits? If they do, no one lets on. 

Once the introductions and the welcoming speeches are done and the actual training begins, Rhea disappears to attend to tasks of her own. She emerges a few hours later and finds the group firing blaster rounds as they compete as teams at an indoor obstacle course. Maul himself is doing the instruction, she sees. Rhea watches from afar as he demonstrates tactics for how to clear an area of hostiles. Then Maul and a reprogrammed Imperial security droid that Cassian Andor brought along begin working as a duo. They attempt to thwart the teams of rebel trainees who do their best to implement Maul’s teaching. 

It’s a simulation of actual combat. The blasters must be set to the lowest stun setting. They clearly sting at impact, but no one actually appears hurt. 

Like everyone else, Maul works with a blaster in his hand. Somehow, that just looks wrong. Rhea watches as he makes the Jedi put her swords away for the exercise as well. But she keeps pulling them automatically out of habit. You do that in a real skirmish and you’ve just outed yourself, Maul tells her pointedly. And then, you have escalated the threat level enormously and made certain that whatever report gets written gets kicked up to Vader’s desk. That will bring immediate scrutiny and better resources down on us. So only pull those swords if you have to, Maul instructs. Be careful about using the Force, he adds. Keep your skills hidden and they are a far greater advantage. 

“Spoken like a sneaky Sith,” the Togruta observes tartly.

“The Sith won the first round in large part thanks to their stealth,” Maul retorts. “Let’s use their same tactics against them.” 

The Togruta begrudgingly nods to his reasoning. But even without her swords, the Jedi’s superior experience and abilities show. Soon, Maul sidelines her so others with lesser skills can get more instruction.

He is very patient, Rhea sees. She’s not surprised. Maul has always struck her as a natural teacher. She sees it in their own interactions. Does Ahsoka Tano see it as well? Rhea wonders as the Jedi crosses the room to take up position beside her. They stand there, side by side both watching Maul. Even in silence, their mutual antagonism is palpable. 

“You’re not just his assistant, are you?” the Jedi finally speaks up.

Rhea plays dumb. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bail said he can’t decide if you two are more like father and daughter or a couple. I thought that sounded ridiculous, but now I’m wondering as well.”

“So you like to gossip?” Rhea slants her some serious side eye. “I wouldn't have pegged the Senator for a gossip.”

“He’s not. Neither am I. I’m just looking to understand.”

“What does it matter?” Rhea challenges.

“Well, I can tell you really dislike me and you’re very protective of Maul, so I’d like to understand why.”

Rhea switches from defense to offense now. “Here’s what you need to know—Maul has my back and I have his. And if I had the Force, I might have killed you already for threatening him.”

To her credit, the Togruta doesn’t laugh in her face. She looks tempted, but she resists. Her rejoinder is a straight-faced nod, “I guess I’m lucky then.”

“That’s right.”

They go back to watching Maul while standing shoulder to shoulder in silence. Until, of course, the big mouthed Togruta just can’t contain her curiosity.

“Aren’t you a little young for him?”

Rhea pretends not to hear.

“He’s got to be at least fifty. Maybe pushing sixty. He could easily be your father.”

Rhea says nothing.

“Is this some groupie thing? The Sith always have groupies. Acolytes, Apprentices, assassins . . . that sort of thing. The Sith love an entourage.”

This time Rhea speaks up. In a huff. “He’s not a Sith and I’m not a groupie. I’m a Lieutenant in Crimson Dawn. Where I come from, that means something.”

“What do you have to do to become a Lieutenant?”

“Pay your dues,” Rhea hisses, “and be loyal.”

“So, stand by your man? Is that it?”

“Yes.”

That shuts the Jedi down for a while. But then, she speaks up again. “How long have you been in his gang?”

“Over ten years.”

She seems a bit shocked. “You joined as a teenager?” 

“Yes.”

“So Maul groomed you? Did he pick you out for this role? Or did he lure you?” The Jedi seems to think those are the only three explanations that might apply.

Rhea answers stiffly. “He gave me this opportunity. Maul mentors me. He teaches me.” And does she sound defensive? Because she’s not defensive. Not at all.

“Does he hurt you too?” the Togruta asks quietly.

Rhea fumes in silence at the question, conveniently forgetting that Maul has threatened to hurt her on several occasions. Because he didn’t mean it, of course. So it doesn’t count. Really, those threats were just an expression of how much she means to him. They were motivated by love, so that makes them good, actually.

The persistent Jedi steps a little closer now as she speaks under her breath. “Do you need help getting out?” She’s utterly sincere as she misreads the situation. Like that Jedi Maul was gifted by the Hutts, this woman also seems to want to rescue her. “I can help you get out,” she promises.

Rhea gives her a sharp look before she shuts down that idea. “I don’t want out. I want to be with him.” She lifts her chin stubbornly. “I’m no damsel in distress or some lost soul you need to save.”

“I see.”

Another long silence falls between them. Rhea spends it stewing. The Jedi makes her feel insecure. Unworthy of Maul. Rhea knows she has no Force and no face. She can’t offer a woman’s traditional attraction of beauty and she can’t offer her Sith the siren’s lure of power. Basically, all she can offer is herself, and she worries that’s not enough to merit a man like Maul. 

Moreover, the nosy Togruta at her side can’t seem to contain her lurid fascination with their relationship. Her next question gets downright uncomfortable. “So . . . if Maul’s half machine, how does this romance work exactly?”

Rhea glares indignantly at the highly inappropriate question. “It works. It works very well,” she brags, feeling stung on Maul’s behalf. She’s shrill now as she adds, “In fact, he’s a beast in bed and he loves my wet ass pu—"

“Whoa!” The Jedi holds up a forestalling hand. “Too much information.”

“You asked,” Rhea hisses. “Take it from me, once you go Dark, you never go back,” she improvises another boast. 

The Jedi shoots her a quelling look. “Don’t say anymore. Forget I asked.”

“He’s taken, Jedi!” Rhea snarls. “Don’t think you’ll break your Temple vows with him.”

She receives a withering look of disdain. “As if that would ever happen.”

“And don’t you think you can blow up his com with naked pics and I won’t notice. Because I have access, bitch—”

“You can stand down,” the Jedi quells her coolly. “There’s not a chance that will ever happen.”

“Good. Any other questions?”

“How’d you get that scar?”

“Not from Maul, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking that—“

“You were.”

Across the hangar, Maul now extinguishes his sword. He approaches the trainees and says a few parting words of praise and encouragement. Then he takes his leave from General Dodonna. Maul heads straight for her. “Come, Rhea. We’re going.”

“You’re leaving now?” the Jedi is surprised.

“Yes. Come, Rhea.”

“But we’re just getting started—”

“This is Dodonna’s show, not mine. He’s in charge.”

“But you’re g-great at this,” the Jedi stammers. “It pains me to say that, but it’s true. Maul, we need you,” she grumbles.

“Time to step up and be a leader yourself, Lady Tano,” he responds. Again, he beckons to Rhea. “Let’s go. Our work here is done.” 

“Wait—” It’s the Jedi again.

Maul is impatient to be away. He pauses. “Was there something else?”

Ahsoka Tano hesitates before she blurts out, “You surprised me with that offer on Mandalore.”

“It was sincere.”

“I see that now.” The Jedi flashes a look of consternation. “You keep surprising me, Maul. I know I’m right about you, but I guess I’m wrong in some ways too . . . ”

That’s quite a mea culpa, all things considered. Maul gives it appropriate weight, but then he asserts, “It’s just like how you think you know the Force, but you only know part of it. The universe is far more nuanced and complicated than your Jedi mindset perceives.”

“I’m no Jedi,” the Togruta huffs.

“That’s a good thing,” Maul approves. “Free your mind from the limitations they put on you, and you will discover your true potential. You have very impressive skills. Vader taught you well.”

Ahsoka Tano lets the crack about her old Master slide. Instead, the Jedi disavows staunchly, “There are no answers in Darkness.”

“Of course, there are,” Maul counters evenly. Then, he reaches for Rhea’s hand. In a silent but showy display of coupledom, he leads her outside to the landing pad.

“Thank you for saving me from her,” Rhea says under her breath as they leave. “She’s awful.”

“It looked like you had things under control.” Maul now reveals casually. “Darth Plagueis wants me to kill her.”

“I’m okay with that.”

Maul turns surprised yellow eyes on her. Is he bemused? Is he disappointed? Is he pleased? She can’t be sure. He can be so enigmatic some times.

Rhea immediately backtracks. “Wait—that came out wrong. I’m not okay with murder. Murder is wrong,” she declares primly. It’s probably a ridiculous statement given who she’s talking to.

“Murder is wrong,” Maul slowly repeats her conviction. “Even murdering Vader?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Well . . . I mean . . . I’m okay with murdering Vader. He has it coming.”

“Just Vader?” he eggs her on. “Who else has it coming? Tell me your hit list, little one.”

“There’s the Emperor. And Kenobi. Definitely Kenobi.”

“So bloodthirsty,” Maul smirks. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“They have it coming,” Rhea insists. 

She thinks a moment as they wait for the ramp to their transport to lower. “I guess I’m okay with death in war,” she decides. “Killing the enemy before they kill you is okay . . . I guess . . . and all those men are the enemy,” she rationalizes.

“Uhmm . . . yes. If you’re not with us, you’re the enemy,” Maul intones. “But Ahsoka Tano is our ally, not our enemy.”

Rhea is having none of it. “We both know she’s the enemy.”

“So true, so true.” Maul drapes an easy arm over her shoulder now as together they climb aboard. “Tell me . . . how come I get the benefit of the doubt and she doesn’t?”

“I don’t trust her.”

“Ah, but you do trust me? How many times must I tell you—never trust a Sith, little one,” he teases.

Rhea shoots him a look. “Don’t start with that line again--”

Maul chuckles. “You’re getting sassy,” he purrs into her ear, “and I love it.”

Maul slips into the cockpit and busies himself with the controls. He’s an expert pilot. Rhea just watches from one of the rear seats, her mind busy thinking. “Why does Plagueis want that Jedi dead?” she asks once they make the jump to lightspeed.

“That’s a very good question,” Maul answers as he kicks back in his seat. That right knee comes up now, like it always does. Relaxed Maul is an inveterate manspreader. It makes Rhea wonder what it feels like to stretch those artificial legs. 

“She’s Vader’s old Padawan,” he reminds her. “I think Plagueis fears her influence over him.”

“What does that matter if you’re going to kill him?”

“You’re right. It only matters if we don’t kill him.” Maul’s eyes converge and narrow now.

Rhea doesn’t like where this is going either. “If Plagueis doesn’t want to kill Vader, then what does he want with him?” Her eyes dart to Maul’s. She worries aloud, “You don’t think he wants Vader for his Apprentice, do you?”

“Vader’s a wreck. He’s worse than me. And he’s the most hated man in the galaxy. Why would you set Vader up as the face of your new regime? He’s the symbol of the old regime,” Maul reasons.

It’s good logic. “You’re right. Vader can’t stick around or the galaxy will never move forward. And then, there won’t be room for you,” she frets.

“That’s not an issue. Plagueis doesn’t care about the Rule of Two.”

“Yes, but you do. And for all you know, Vader might as well.”

Maul looks troubled now. “Plagueis says he has a lure for Vader. That we don’t need Ahsoka to get him to come to us.”

“What could possibly be more of a lure than his old Padawan who he presumably loved at one time? That Jedi is probably the one person left alive who Vader cares about . . . or used to care about.” 

“I don’t know,” Maul shakes his head.

“Is it just power?” she brainstorms. “You always say the Sith love power.”

“Vader has power. He’s the Apprentice. There’s no trading up from that role with Plagueis around as an immortal Master.”

“Yeah,” she thinks aloud. “What’s in it for Vader to swap one Master for another?” And now, a worrying thought occurs. “What if Plagueis wants to offer Vader the Emperor role? Maul, that should be your role--”

“Yes, it should.” 

Maul goes silent for a long moment. That’s a sure giveaway that he is rattled. A silent Maul is a dangerous Maul. All in Crimson Dawn know to get worried when the boss begins to say less and less.

Finally, he speaks. “I think Lady Tano needs to live,” he decides slowly. “I don’t want to make it too easy for Plagueis to dump me.”

“Right,” Rhea concurs. “We’re not doing this so Vader can rule the galaxy.”


	25. chapter 25

Maul slowly paces. His metal legs are muted as they connect with the stone beneath his feet. There’s a thick layer of grime, dead leaves, and moss to dampen his footfalls as he ventures further away from where the others are gathered. The room he’s canvassing is large and dimly lit from narrow windows high above. The light doesn’t quite penetrate to reach the corners, giving the chamber a foreboding gloom. The Force tells him there’s nothing hidden in the shadows to lunge out at him, but that’s not how it appears. 

This place is a holy place. He’s no archaeologist, but even he can see that. There is an altar table on a high dais up a flight of steps. The central open space he stands in has stone incense bowls. Empty iron torchholders line the walls. Yes, clearly some lost culture held its sacred rites here long ago. In fact, if he didn’t know better, he’d think this was a Sith temple. The enormous stone structure is a pyramid shape that strongly resembles a giant Sith holochron. The language he sees engraved on the walls even looks oddly reminiscent of Kittat, the ancient language of the Old Sith Empire. But this isn’t the Unknown Regions. This is the fourth moon of the Yavin system in the Outer Rim. Five thousand years ago, it would have been Republic space most likely. Now, it’s an uninhabited world of dense jungles and swampy rainforests. It’s teaming with life, just not sentient life any longer. Whoever the people were who constructed this temple, they are long gone. And that makes Yavin 4 feel disconcertingly like present day Dathomir.

Just at the edge of earshot, Maul hears Rhea talking of construction and logistics with Jan Dodonna and members of his local rebel cell. They are discussing the feasibility of locating the main rebel base here. It’s talk of heavy equipment and supplies. Of timetables and milestones. Of whether the local water supply can be made potable and if any of the indigenous wildlife poses issues for power generation. Mostly, it’s a practical discussion of ‘can we do this?’ and not the issue that concerns him: ‘should we do this?’

“What do you think?” It’s Senator Bail Organa who is here to sell him on the idea. 

“Who built this? What do we know of them?” Maul responds as he cranes his neck to look up high. 

“They were called the Massassi.”

“Human?”

“No. At least, we think not.”

“What happened to them?”

“Unclear.”

“This place is strong with the Force,” Maul comments as he resumes his pacing.

The tall Senator joins in at his side. “That’s good. Right?”

“Yes.”

Up walks Dodonna now. He too asks, “What do you think?” But before Maul can answer, the man launches into a long explanation of how he and his men have used this location as a hideout on and off for years. No one knows to come look here and there are no Imperial patrols in the system. That makes Yavin 4 an easy refuge for fugitive rebels. 

That all makes sense, but it’s not what’s bothering him. He turns now to ask Jan Dodonna the same questions he just put to the Senator. “Who built this? What do we know of them?”

“The Massassi. Red aliens who legend has it were warriors. They’re long gone,” the local rebel leader assures him. “This place is ours now.”

Maul looks pointedly at the two-foot-thick stone wall they’re standing next to. “They built all this and left?”

“I guess. So, what do you think? It’s perfect, right?”

When Maul frowns and hesitates, Bail Organa speaks up. “The Empire won’t find us here. There’s nothing of note in any of the neighboring systems. This is practically dead space.”

That’s all true. There is a logic to choosing this site that is undeniable. Yavin 4 has considerable benefits and little downside risk. But still, Maul is troubled. 

Enough stalling. He just comes out with it. “I don’t like destroying this temple.”

Dodonna has no such qualms. “Ah, no one will care,” he cajoles. “These people are dead. Their religion is dead. It won’t matter.”

It matters to him. “This is a sacred space,” Maul points out. “Whoever these Massassi were, they worshipped here. This was their hallowed ground.” He eyes his white-haired colleague now. But the man doesn’t even have the good grace to squirm beneath his stare. 

Quite simply, Dodonna is unimpressed with his scruples. “Who cares?” he shrugs. 

Who cares? He cares. Looking around at what remains of some long-lost tribe’s consecrated space, he can’t help but see the parallels to his own people. Someday, someone will march through what little remains of Mother’s grotto and order it bulldozed as well. The past will yield its ground to the future. And then, the Witches of Dathomir will fade a little further into obscure legend. Like the Massassi of Yavin, no one left alive will know or care.

Well, he cares. When Dodonna repeats his comment, Maul snarls back, “I care.”

History truly is indeed the winner’s side of the story, Maul thinks as he looks around again at the massive temple. Did these people die out? Were they conquered? Did they flee? Only history knows and it’s not talking. No one glorifies or romanticizes what it means to lose and fade away. For victory has a hundred fathers but defeat is always a lonely orphan. That means few people know to exhort the courage and fortitude that it takes to pick up the pieces after failure and loss. Well, he does. He’s projecting again—it’s a habit. But still, he barks gruffly, “Build your base somewhere else.” 

“That’s not practical. The jungle is very thick and will take too much effort to clear. It’s much easier just to knock down these ruins and build here.”

“Build it somewhere else,” Maul digs in. “Try that Hoth system instead.”

“This is far more convenient and a much better climate—“

“Hoth it is. Where’s Rhea? We need to get going,” he complains. He’s got a long flight to Nal Hutta ahead of him. Time to leave.

“I don’t understand. What’s the issue?” Dodonna looks to Bail Organa in confused frustration. The General truly is perplexed. There is nothing insidious about his desire to locate the new base here. His casual ambivalence about destroying the ancient ruins has no animus. It’s a matter of practical convenience. 

But Maul still objects. He attempts to phrase it in a way these Jedi-loving rebels will understand. “Would you tear down Jehda for your base?” 

“Jedha’s a war zone,” Dodonna answers. 

He tries again. “Would you tear down the Coruscant Jedi Temple?”

“The Emperor already did that,” the General reminds him.

Maul frowns at his blunt answers. Who’s the fool here? Is he the fool? The silly, sentimental one who acts with his heart instead of his head? No, there is a principle at stake here. For all religions are the Force. The creeds differ, the rituals differ, and the teachings differ. Because different cultures draw different lessons when they confront their creator. But the creator—the Force—is the same for all. And whether he is Darth Maul, the former Sith lord, or he is just Brother Maul Oppress, Mother Talzin’s firstborn son, he will not tolerate disrespect for the worship of the Force.

Father would be aghast if this were Exogol. If this were Dathomir, he himself will kill to keep off-worlders from profaning Mother’s lair. But there are no Massassi loyalists left to safeguard their sacred spaces. So why is he doing it? He has no connection to these people. This isn’t about him. Troubled, he resumes looking around as the Senator and the General peer at him with consternation. Maul ignores it.

This stalwart temple they’re standing in is the march of time showing, he knows. It is the consequence of fate. The galaxy has winners and losers. Civilizations rise and fall, and there are remnants scattered about. It’s uncomfortable to know that he himself is one of those remnants. Like the straggler Jedi fugitives who Plagueis gives safe haven to, Maul knows he too is a leftover who exists out of place. The coven is gone forever. And though he decries his Sith upbringing, that creed is the only creed that matters now. 

This brewing civil war he plots with Plagueis is not about restoring the Republic, it’s about the future of the Sith. About the core values of Darkness—everything from the application of the Rule of Two to the amorphous goal of balancing the Force. Sly Plagueis will make sure that this fight is Dark versus Dark, too. Maul is certain that is a motivating factor behind his desire to eliminate Ahsoka Tano. Unlike those half-trained Padawans Plagueis shelters, Ahsoka is far too capable to keep around. For like this old temple, she will eventually need to go.

But is he too capable as well? Too unreliable in his loyalty to his own Master, like Vader’s old Padawan? This is the real risk, Maul judges. That he himself will be used and then discarded. That like this temple the rebels seek to knock down, he too will be judged an impediment to progress. That like all the Nightsisters and Nightbrothers he knew, he too will fall victim to the treacherous Sith. What’s worse, he will have been complicit for his own ambitions.

Maul stops pacing now. He swallows hard. He hates when he gets in these spiraling Dark moods. Only Rhea understands his survivor guilt. How it motivates him and yet traps him. The past is a complicated thing. It weighs him down. The legacy of his Mother’s people pits him against his Father’s success. The obvious answer is to side with Father, the winner. Except Father doesn’t want him and now Plagueis has crawled out of exile. 

He swallows hard again. He knows he needs to stop. He needs to snap out of this funk. The rebels are choosing a spot for a new base and yet he manages to make it all about him. This is what failure does to a man—it consumes him. It becomes the prism through which everything is viewed. 

“Maul.” It’s Rhea appearing at his side. “Perhaps there is a compromise. What if we got an engineer out here to evaluate things? What if we could retrofit these ruins and use them for the base? That lower floor we saw earlier would make a great hangar.”

“You mean build inside these structures?” Dodonna, as always, inserts himself. 

“Why not?” Rhea suggests. “Then, when the Empire comes to scan, things will look basically the same as always.” She looks back to him. “It would preserve the past. At least some of it. It might even be faster and cheaper to build,” she offers. “I don’t know . . . we’ll have to see.”

“That’s fine by me,” Dodonna doesn’t care. He just wants to build the main rebel base here on Yavin where he can be in charge. 

But the heretofore silent Bail Organa seems to appreciate Maul’s objection. “Would that be acceptable?” he asks.

Would it? Maul’s not sure. All eyes are on him again for guidance now. Father always said that you should give a straight answer with conviction, no matter how uncertain you feel. But in this, he cannot follow that advice. “I don’t know . . .” he gives an unsatisfactory response. He’s feeling very unsettled for reasons he cannot explain. This place is very evocative for him.

“What would Mother Talzin say?” Rhea murmurs. 

That’s a question he can answer. “She’d consult the Force.”

“Then let’s do that.”

Dodonna sighs, but Jedi-loving Bail Organa nods his approval. “Good idea. We want the Force to be with us.”

“Amen to that,” Maul grumbles with a quick, hard glance at the General. Slowly Maul climbs up the dais steps and turns to face the ancient assembly room. He blinks and sees flashes of an expectant crowd of red aliens. They’re not really present. This is a peek at the past. No doubt the memory from a priest who stood in this very spot long ago for an important ceremony.

“This place is strong with the Force,” he mutters aloud again. That’s the only explanation for how readily the Force beckons to him now. 

He blinks again and the crowd he sees is mostly human now. It’s soldiers in uniforms who stand in neat rows as a trio of heroes march through their midst. This is not the past. This is the future. These are rebels celebrating their own. 

The Force is practically teasing him to take a look. So, Maul inhales a deep breath and reaches out his mind as he lifts his arms. It’s effortless to connect with the Force here on Yavin 4. It rushes up fast like an unrelenting tide. Maul loses all but distant awareness of what’s actually happening as it takes over. And that’s when a vision floods his consciousness.

_He feels a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. A wave of death and destruction washes over him, leaving behind the scattered debris of civilizations gone and lives lost. Something terrible has happened. Something Dark. Too Dark for the Force to tolerate._

_That's no moon. Is it a space station? A planet? He’s not certain how to describe it other than as a weapon. It destroys an ancient, holy city and then proceeds to vaporize a Core planet in a heady rush of Darkness. There is no preamble to either act. No deadline, no dialogue, no ultimatum. Just devastation. Whatever this is, this technological terror is now the ultimate power in the universe and someone is using it with ruthless expedience._

“What the Hell is he doing??”

“I don’t know.” It’s Bail Organa talking. “Master Yoda used to just close his eyes for a second. That was it. This is . . . uh . . . uh . . . dramatic,” the Senator finishes, for once sounding less than his polished public speaker self. 

“Yeah? Well, it’s making me uncomfortable. Make him stop.”

“Shhh!” That’s Rhea. “Please. Let him concentrate.”

_He watches in stunned fascination as a cold green beam of energy obliterates a planet. This power is green like Mother’s timeless, primal magic, green like the laserfire shot at two meager squadrons of attacking rebel ships, and green like the navigational projections at the Yavin base that is the weapon’s newest target. The rebel base is in range now. You may fire when ready._

_This is it. The underdogs are outgunned, their secret base is discovered, and their demise is imminent. The Empire is about to crush the rebellion in one swift stroke. For what good are snub fighters against a superweapon of this magnitude? Plenty good, apparently. For the ability to destroy a planet is insignificant compared to the power of the Force._

“His eyes are glowing green. They’re freaking green, Bail--”

“His magic is green.” It’s Rhea again. “Don’t be afraid. He won’t hurt you.”

“Oookay. If you say so. But is it going to end soon? Because I would like this to end.”

“Shut up.” It’s Rhea sounding stressed and being very uncharacteristically rude to anyone other than Ahsoka Tano. “Trust in the Force,” his girl now admonishes the men like a good Sith’s lady. 

How does this end? He must know. Maul concentrates harder. 

_The weapon is destroyed. The rebels win. The Force is with them._

“This is weird,” Dodonna grumbles. “Is he done? He looks like he’s done.”

“Is he alright?” It’s Bail Organa again. “Rhea, are you sure he’s alright?”

“He’s fine,” Maul answers for himself. He blinks fast and wipes at his eyes. Then, he stands to his feet from the kneeling crouch he has found himself in. Rhea’s at his side looking worried as he exhales wearily, “Build the base here. Like she said. Build it in the ruins.”

Rhea is looking him over, fussing that he’s hurt. “What did you see?” she asks as she lifts hands to cup his sweat streaked cheeks. “That was a Force vision, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. I saw the future.” He’s still turned into her, hiding his weakness from the others as he regains his equilibrium.

“Well, Maul? What’s the future?” It’s that skeptic Dodonna now asking for answers from the Force he doesn’t respect.

Shooting him a resentful glare, Maul replies, “There is a battle here. We win.”

“Good to know,” Dodonna gladly accepts that answer.

“If we win, then why don’t you look happy?” Bail Organa probes quietly.

Maul looks the Senator in the eye and an immediate understanding of the premonition he just saw occurs in his mind. The planet that will be destroyed is Alderaan. Bail Organa will die along with his entire homeworld.

“Maul?” the doomed Senator prods him softly.

He is evasive. He doesn’t reveal the knowledge of Alderaan just like he doesn’t reveal the existence of the Empire’s superweapon space station. There’s no point in telling people the future. It will just cause them to try to change things, but they will fail inevitably. For you cannot subvert the will of the Force, you only subvert yourself. It’s best not to know the future, Maul has always believed. And so, he responds to the Senator gravely, “We win, but only after many people die at the hands of the Empire.” 

_“_ I see.”

“I saw a battle. Only a battle.”

“But we win that battle?”

“Yes.” He anticipates the next question. “I cannot tell you if we win the war.”

“Well, I guess that settles a few things at least,” Dodonna harrumphs. “Thanks, Jedi, for the preview. I love a good spoiler myself.”

“He’s not a Jedi,” Rhea bristles on his behalf.

“Right, I forget. What are you again?” Dodonna squints at him in confusion.

“I’m a witch,” Maul declares.

“Right. Got it.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?” It’s Rhea still hovering protectively.

“I’m fine. Let’s go. The matter is settled.”

“Go? Now? But, we’re not done yet.” Dodonna looks displeased. “You’re always leaving in a hurry,” he accuses.

And while that has recently been true, it’s also true that Maul has little patience for the consensus ‘let’s talk this out ad infinitum’ work style of the rebel leadership. At Crimson Dawn, he functions as an executive. That means he takes charge, makes decisions, delegates, and accepts responsibility. Dodonna here would do well to take notes. Maul eyes the complaining man. “I have a day job, or haven’t you heard?”

“I’ve heard. We’ve all heard.”

“Then you should know that I’ve got a long flight to go see an angry Hutt,” Maul informs him.

“I guess that’s in your ordinary course of business, eh? Visiting vile gangsters.”

“That’s right.”

“What do you guys talk about?” the General wants to know. 

He gives the standard euphemism. “Business.”

“Spice?”

“Sometimes.”

“What else?”

“I have other product lines.”

“Like what?”

Does this guy really want to know? Maul starts in on the litany of the vices he peddles. “Gambling. Women. Money laundering. Contraband goods. Now arms trafficking too.”

“We’re grateful for the time and expertise Maul gives us,” Bail Organa inserts himself now to smooth things over. He sends a quelling look at bristling Dodonna. Then, the Senator nods at him. “We understand that you’re busy. If you want to leave Rhea behind to discuss the details here, we’ll make sure she makes it home.”

“Negative,” he refuses. “Rhea comes with me. She can join in by com once we get in hyperspace.”

Dodonna digs in. “If she’s going to help me set up this base, she needs to be here now.”

“She comes with me to see the Hutt.” Maul grabs for Rhea’s hand. “Let’s go. Time to get in your slave girl collar.”

“Yes, Sir,” she demurs.

“Slave girl collar?” Bail Organa looks intrigued for the briefest of moments before he catches himself and dutifully disapproves. “Maul, you can’t be serious.”

He’s very serious. He’s not walking into a Hutt palace without a lightsaber concealed in Rhea’s tether handle. Especially now that tensions are so high between the gangs. So, he looks from the Senator to the General and explains, “I can’t walk into a Hutt’s audience chamber without a pretty girl on a chain,” like it’s common knowledge and they’re the ones being unreasonable. 

“That’s barbaric and demeaning,” Dodonna sniffs. “Does Mon Mothma know you treat women this way?”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Maul informs him coolly. 

“Well, get some other girl to do it and leave Rhea here,” Dodonna grumbles. “We need her. She’s vital to this project.”

“She’s vital to me.” Maul turns yellow eyes on Rhea now. “I need you wearing that chain.” She knows that chain is not just a chain. She also knows the whole context for the upcoming meeting. 

Rhea immediately nods. “Of course.”

“Good girl,” he approves. “Let’s go.”

“Rhea’s staying,” Dodonna maintains. “There is work to be done—“

“She works for me, General,” he reminds everyone softly. “She’s not one of your rebels to order around.”

“Come on, let’s go,” Rhea must be tired of hearing her whereabouts discussed, because now she rallies to take charge. With an ironic assertiveness, she proclaims to their audience, “I’m the only girl who gets to be chained to Maul.”

He can’t help it. He snorts at her bold words. He loves it when Rhea gets possessive and protective. She might just have well proclaimed ‘he’s mine!’ to the rebels. 

“Last time we saw this particular Hutt, he gave me a Jedi.” Maul turns to Bail Organa. “Senator, I’ll be contacting you if I get another parting gift of a fugitive.”

“He gave you a Jedi??” Dodonna chokes in disbelief.

“Umm, yes. I once gave that Hutt a rancor beast. In return, he gives me women.”

Dodonna blinks. “Wait—that’s not where Rhea came from, is it?”

“General—“ It’s Organa giving him another ‘shut up’ look.

“Er . . . don’t answer that,” Dodonna cringes as he retracts the question.

Too late. Rhea lifts her chin and replies, “Maul didn’t get me from a Hutt. He found me in a brothel.”

“Right . . . “ The General and the Senator exchange somewhat aghast looks. 

Maul smothers a smile at her artless, but true, reveal. “Well, there you have it, gentlemen,” he snickers at their uncomfortable reaction. “Any other questions, General?”

“No,” the Senator answers firmly for Dodonna.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” Maul coos with cold sarcasm, “ask away. We own who we are at Crimson Dawn.” His band of maladjusted losers comprise one of the galaxy’s leading criminal enterprises. Whether they know it or not, each member in their own way reflects a version of their leader’s own personal struggles. For whether they cope with addiction, loss, rejection, mental health issues, or crippling insecurities and fears, they all inevitably struggle with Darkness. Like he does. 

It turns out that General Dodonna does in fact have a question, just not for him. He and Rhea are not quite out of earshot as the man wonders aloud to Bail Organa, “What the Hell are we doing with a guy like that? He’s a thug.”

The Senator answers, “He’s going to kill Darth Vader for us.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. So, unless you’re good with a lightsaber, don’t scare him off. We need him. Besides,” Alderaan’s covert rebel observes, “he’s not nearly as bad as he seems.”

Maul scowls as he overhears. If he wasn’t in a hurry, he might just turn around and correct that misapprehension. Because, yes, he is every bit as bad as he seems. Maybe a little Force lightning will help that annoying General realize it.

“Ignore them,” Rhea whispers. She too has overheard. She tugs him toward where their ship is parked.

Maul allows himself to be led. “That temple was a Sith temple,” he confides under his breath.

“Wait—really?”

“Yes. The Massassi must have been a part of the Sith Empire.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know. I can’t prove it, but I know it. The locals must have fallen prey to the Republic at some point. Maybe that’s why they’re gone.”

“Are you going to tell the rebels?”

“No. They say they’re fine with locating the base here. I’ll take them at their word.” But the irony does not escape either of them: the rebellion against the new Sith Empire to restore the Old Republic will be headquartered on an Old Sith Empire world. These strange coincidences of Dark and Light converging and switching sides keep occurring. They stoke Maul’s suspicions that Plagueis may be on to something with his balance ideas. 

“I’ve never seen you have a vision,” Rhea remarks as they climb into his two-seat fighter.

“They are rare for me. Father has marvelous foresight. But I don’t.” It is one more metric by which he failed to measure up as the Apprentice. “The coven had its share of seers, but I am not one of them. When I experience the future through the Force, it is usually through visitations.”

“Visitations . . . you mean the Force possesses you?” she guesses.

“Something like that, but nowhere near as scary as it sounds. It’s comforting, really. It’s always Mother.”

“You talk to your dead mother through the Force?”

“Yes. Does that sound crazy?” It does sound crazy. He should know. He’s been crazy.

“It sounds nice.” Rhea is wistful now. “I wish I could see my family again . . . ”

Yes, he knows. He hasn’t told Rhea that he has men looking for her father. He’ll only tell her the good news if he finds him. Not the bad news to confirm he’s dead if that’s the outcome.

“What’s it like? That vision looked like it hurt.”

“It’s intense, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“Are you sure?” she frets.

“I’m fine.”

Once they are in hyperspace en route to Nal Hutta, he proceeds to tell Rhea everything he remembers of the temple vision. It’s actually very helpful to talk about it. It helps him to better process what he saw. For when the Force teases its secrets, it’s images and feelings mostly, rather than a narrative. Visions are rarely linear in their presentation. For the uninitiated newbies, they can feel like a frightening mix of disjointed events. The skill comes in processing their meaning, and that requires insight and context, some of which you only discover over time. That is why augury is an inexact science. If you’re not careful, you can mislead yourself. 

The Jedi tended to reject premonitions for that reason. They urged their knights to focus on the here and now. Even Mother taught to accept what you foresee and understand, and then discard the rest. But the Sith are slavish devotees to teasing out the whole truth of visions. With all their emphasis on plots and manipulations, they always want a peek into the future. The Sith of old were forever conjuring visions in elaborate ceremonies to reassure themselves of their power.

“Are you going to tell the rebels about that superweapon?” Rhea wants to know.

He shakes his head. “Plagueis doesn’t want to tell them yet.”

“So it’s for sure real?” she gulps.

“Oh, yes. Father’s been lusting after a weapon like that for decades.”

“And Plagueis knows?”

“He claims it was his idea in the first place. That Muun knows far more than he lets on.”

“Oh. Well, let’s stay away from Alderaan,” Rhea suggests worriedly. “I don’t want to go back to Alderaan . . .”

“Plagueis says that weapon is at least five years away from completion.”

“I don’t care. We’re not going to Alderaan,” she informs him. Her insistence makes him smile.

He gives Rhea all the details he remembers from the vision, but he doesn’t confess what worries him the most about today’s revelation—that he is a man privileged to see the future, but not to shape it. That he has the burden of the knowledge, but will reap none of the glory. That he is merely a spectator of events and not a true architect of the future. This latest vision reminds him uncomfortably of years ago when the Force showed him the fall of Anakin Skywalker and the rise of Darth Vader. He had watched helplessly as another man replaced his own replacement. In the end, Maul had been powerless to stop it. Even had Ahsoka Tano accepted his offer, he knows they would have been unable to thwart Father’s plans. He’d have been killed. Likely, the Togruta too. 

Did Ahsoka Tano turn him down so that he would survive? The Force works in mysterious ways like that sometimes. Was the point of his second failure at Mandalore for him to survive to plan this rebellion? Because it must mean something for that Jedi and him to have finally joined forces. Perhaps it was simply too soon at the war’s end . . .

“What does your mother tell you in the Force?” Rhea asks him. She has a layman’s curiosity about the Force but a growing respect as well.

“She tells me that she loves me.”

Rhea’s double face splits into her slightly crooked smile. She gushes, “Oh, Maul, that’s wonderful. She’s looking out for you?”

“Yes.”

“What else does she say?”

“She warns me about Vader.”

“Oh.”

“She’s always warning me away from being the Apprentice,” he explains.

“Do you listen?”

“She warned me when she was living too. Rhea, she hates Father. Those warnings are to protect me. She’s trying to scare me away from approaching Father again.” 

His little Twi’lek clearly agrees. She eyes him. “Maybe you should listen.”

“Little one,” he sighs as he levels with her, “there is no rebellion without confronting Vader. You said it yourself—ultimately, this ends in Father’s throne room, not on a battlefield.”

“But I don’t want you hurt,” comes her rejoinder. He can’t tell if she’s worried about Father hurting his feelings or actually killing him. Maybe both.

But he brushes aside her fears. “Risk comes with the territory.” He fixes her with a raised eyebrow. “We just came from plotting treason and now we’re going to confront a Hutt. Danger is what we do.”

“Now, you’re bragging,” she accuses.

“Maybe a little,” he smirks.

With the location of the rebel base settled, Maul now turns his attention to a far more pressing matter: the trouble afoot in the galactic underworld. Long ago, Father taught him that when your enemies converge, divide them. And so, when the Hutts began to circle with the Pikes against him, Maul set to work sowing discord. 

First, he intercepted a Pike shipment and pulled the same stunt the Hutts pulled on Crimson Dawn. Two Pike gang members get blasted out the airlock of their ship and their spice freighter is stolen. A camera records the entire episode. This time, the perpetrators are not Hutts. They are Crimson Dawn guys pretending to be Hutts pretending to be Crimson Dawn guys. Some clever editing produces a hologram recording clearly showing the faces and voices of the actual Hutt gang members who pulled the original heist on Crimson Dawn that the Pikes were in on. To make the setup even more credible, Crimson Dawn dumps the stolen Pike freighter at a known Hutt port of call, conspicuously leaving the transponder functioning so the vessel can be easily located. 

Next, Crimson Dawn sends the Pikes the hologram recording of the murders and the heist, claiming retribution. Crimson Dawn then hacks the comlink of a prominent Hutt capo and uses that account to send a message to one of the minor Hutt family members confirming that his instructions have been carried out. This message alludes to a Hutt plan to break the uneasy alliance between Crimson Dawn and the Pikes so that the Hutts can make a move for the casino business on Canto Bight. In the coming gang war, the message predicts, the Hutts will be the big winners. Conveniently, the message also contains the same hologram recording that Crimson Dawn sent to the Pikes, bragging about how easy it is to play their competitors off one another. 

It all unfolds like this: 

Within one standard rotation day, two Pikes are dead, their shipment is stolen, and Crimson Dawn has claimed credit. 

The irate Pikes bypass the usual channels and go straight to Maul to demand an explanation. He denies any involvement. Moreover, he thinks the Hutts are behind all this, and he’s going to prove it. He wants five days to get to the bottom of things. 

The next day, the Pikes locate their missing ship in Hutt territory. Now, the irate Pikes confront the Hutts for an explanation.

The following day, the completely fabricated but very incriminating message purportedly sent by the Hutt capo is found on a Hutt server when Crimson Dawn hacks it again. Maul produces the fake message to the Pikes as proof that the Hutts are behind the ruse. He also shows a forensic analysis of the recording of the Pike heist proving that the perpetrators match the perpetrators in the Crimson Dawn heist that started the trouble in the first place. We’re being played, Maul contends to his so-called allies. The Hutts are sowing trouble and blaming us for it. 

It’s a muddled mess of fact and deceit. The Pikes don’t know who to believe. But they have a lot invested in Canto Bight. So the Pikes being the Pikes, they side with their credits. Bygones are agreed to be bygones between the Pikes and Crimson Dawn. As a show of goodwill, the Pikes give Maul a list of upcoming Hutt shipments they are acting as supplier for just in case Crimson Dawn wants to harass them a bit as payback. He’s no fool. Maul takes that list and decides to give it to the Hutts. To Marlo the Hutt, to be exact. And that’s why he can’t linger long with the rebels on Yavin 4. 

The flight to Nal Hutta is uneventful. In orbit, he docks his small, light fighter with a waiting Crimson Dawn ship. It’s carrying Uli and the rest of the men who will accompany him for the audience with Marlo. As usual, Maul plans to appear with a full entourage. But this time, the meeting will be in private. By prior agreement, this will not be a command performance stare down before a slew of drunk, high Hutt hangers-on. This business will be conducted away from prying eyes.

The security process is the same as before. On the landing platform, he and his men are searched and scanned while a Hutt guard unwittingly holds Rhea’s chain with his concealed lightsaber. Someone hands back her tether and they are marched inside to meet their host. 

They are escorted into a room that appears to function as Marlo’s office. It’s a dim chamber with a low ceiling that makes the giant alien slug loom larger than ever even though he’s not perched on the usual floating dais. There are no bevy of sycophants in attendance, but there are drooling Gamorrean guards lurking in the corners by the louvered windows. There are also several Hutt capos standing around posturing with conspicuous weaponry and even more prominent frowns. These must be Marlo the Hutt’s inner circle of consiglieres. His underboss Hutt cousin is nowhere in sight, however.

“Maul,” the gangster worm croaks out his name with a marked lack of enthusiasm. There will be no pretense of welcome for this tense interview.

“Marlo,” he drawls back as he plants his feet and crosses his arms, surreptitiously tucking the lightsaber end of Rhea’s tether into the crook of his elbow. There is a lot riding on this meeting. Maul now summons the Force to heighten his senses and concentrates hard.

“I didn’t think you’d have the gall to show your face here,” his host growls in his own language.

Maul doesn’t bother with the pretext of waiting for the interpreter droid to translate. He answers back in Basic, which he knows the Hutt understands. “Did you think I would let your aggression go unanswered? I’ve lost twelve men to you in the last month.”

Marlo also dispenses with the pretext of a language barrier. He continues speaking in guttural Huttese. Clearly, he too thinks this is a moment for plain speaking. “You fabricated that stunt with the Pikes. We know it and they know it.”

“They might be a little less certain than you are. The Pikes just gave me a list of your upcoming shipments. Time, date, vessel identification, and nearest coordinates. Here. Have a copy.” Maul reaches into a pocket before he lobs a datafile right into the grip of the giant slug’s hand. “Now what do you suppose they thought I would use that information for?”

The Hutt does not respond to his sarcasm.

“They gave you a list like this for our shipments, didn’t they? And we know how you used it.”

“Maul—"

He impatiently overrides his host. “We can chip away at each other. You steal our shipments and kill our men. Then we steal your shipments and kill your men. It will be a low-grade war before long. Is that what you want?”

“You’re the one who wants a war,” the Hutt accuses.

He looks the bloated snake in the eye. Marlo is no hothead. He’s a veteran of the underworld who has seen a gang war and a real war in his lifetime. So Maul speaks slowly but without hesitation. He is genuinely sincere and he hopes it shows. 

“I told you when I was last here that I don’t want a syndicate war. I’ll say it again: I don’t want a war. But do you know who wants a war?”

“The Pikes.”

Maul grins appreciatively at the immediate answer. Marlo the Hutt is no lightweight. “Like I always say, you’re the smartest Hutt.” 

“Stop smiling,” the big slug on the dais orders curtly. “You only smile when you lie, Maul. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

The smile becomes a smirk as he plays through the likely scenario. “Let’s just say for the sake of argument that you went to the Pikes with concerns that I’m preparing for a syndicate war. They were only too happy to aid and abet your fears—“

“We are not afraid of Crimson Dawn.”

“—because the Pikes are interested in moving beyond their monopoly on production and into distribution. They have the wholesale spice market and the Clan and my gang have the retail spice market. A war between us would disrupt that retail market. We shoot up your cantinas and bars, and you lose clientele. You set fire to my brothels or invade my casinos and execute a few high rollers, and we lose clientele. Once it happens enough times, people will go elsewhere for their vice. No one wants to risk their life for a night out. We both lose credits and customers. And all the while,” he concludes, “the Pikes stand ready to step in to meet the unmet demand. While we kill each other, they wait to pounce.”

“We are aware of their ambitions,” the Hutt intones. His consigliere all nod their heads to underscore their boss’ point.

Maul continues with his theme, playing to the longstanding ill will between his competitors. For the Hutts like the Pikes only slightly more than they like Crimson Dawn. “The Pikes think that because they control Kessel, they ought to control the entire underworld. They are threatened by the idea that other narcotics might one day eclipse spice. And they are increasingly threatened by diversification within our organizations. We are both far less dependent on spice than we were a decade ago. Our friends at Ona Diah know that.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Marlo snarls.

Maul eyes his host. “What I don’t understand is your angle on things. Were you foolish enough to believe that you could start a gang war and you could win it? That you could take us out as competitors and then deal with the Pikes afterwards? Because I promise you that if our organizations go to war and you win, the Clan will emerge shattered. Crimson Dawn will not go down easily, and I’m a hard man to kill.”

The Hutt digests this boast. Is he going to issue one of his own? No. He answers with a threat. “We’re not starting a war. You’re the one starting a war. I know what you’re doing on Dantooine.”

“We’ve had a presence on Dantooine for years.”

“I’m not talking about bars and brothels. I’m talking about the training camp where you are assembling a private army.”

“It’s a new business venture. I have started dealing in arms and now I’ve expanded to include mercenaries in my inventory. I can sell you guns and the men to use them. Why—are you interested? Are you in the market? Because I can sell you some good soldiers. Not clones. Real soldiers.” He looks askance at the clumsy, axe-wielding Gamorreans and sniffs, “Looks like you could use an upgrade.”

Marlo scoffs, “I won’t buy your soldiers to act as spies in our ranks.”

“I can get you a good deal,” Maul offers with a wiseguy’s mocking tone.

“That won’t be necessary. Maul, I know what you’re doing on Dantooine. I know who’s buying your arms and soldiers.”

He feigns unconcern even as he senses Rhea tense up behind him. He plays it cool, like always. “Selling arms is the same as selling spice and selling women. We sell to whoever pays good credits.”

“Is that what you plan to tell the Empire?” the Hutt coyly inquires.

Maul doesn’t miss a beat, offering, “We’ll sell to them too. Marlo, you know I have no political persuasions.”

The powerful Hutt now calls him out. “You tried to take over Mandalore. Twice. Save your denials about politics for someone who’ll listen.”

“That was long ago. The war was over years ago. The Republic is long gone. The Empire is in charge now.”

“Not if your customers have anything to say about it,” the Hutt counters. 

Again, he shrugs with an indifference he doesn’t feel. Because he doesn’t dare show doubt or weakness when cornered by his rival. Maul replies matter of fact, “I don’t ask my customers what they do with the guns I sell them. That’s their business.”

“Is that what you plan to tell the Empire?”

“Yes.”

“You are starting a war,” the Hutt again accuses, “just not a syndicate war.”

Maul doesn’t bother denying it. He just flashes a sly smile. “War is good for business when you sell munitions.”

“War is bad for business,” the veteran Hutt sternly disagrees. “The last war cost the Clan hundreds of millions of credits.”

“My customers aren’t actually going to win,” Maul points out. 

“I don’t care who wins. I just care that the fighting hurts business,” the gangster slug is pragmatic, as always.

“The fighting was ongoing before I supplied the arms,” Maul reasons, “It’s all small scale, so don’t pretend that pockets of malcontents in flyover systems are hurting your margins.”

The Hutt grunts and then abandons the point. Instead, he wags a finger as he threatens, “If you frame us again to the Pikes, I’ll be telling the Empire about Dantooine.”

This is Marlo’s style—he likes to threaten. It works well with other adversaries, Maul suspects, just not with him. A Sith is not easily intimidated. In fact, he refuses to acknowledge the hit. Instead, he steps forward to answer Marlo’s threat with one of his own. 

“If you or the Pikes steal another shipment or kill more of my men, I will start a syndicate war. I’ll take all those trained soldiers and weapons I’ve promised to customers and use them myself. I’ll give them one target: the Clan.” He summarizes bluntly, “If you want a war, I will give you a war. But I don’t want a war.” 

As Marlo glowers at him in silence, Maul takes measure of the Hutt. The big slug knows what he’s doing. In between the obligatory sarcasm and the tough lines, he’s trying to diffuse the tensions and give Marlo a way out that they both want. This is all just preamble to an agreement, hopefully. But neither side can actually make an offer without appearing weak. So they puff and posture a bit first. Like two prize fighters trading jabs and feints, they attempt to intimidate one another.

Has this gone on long enough? Maul assesses yes. He asks point blank, “Do you want a war?”

“No.”

“Then don’t start a war.”

“I don’t control the Pikes.” 

It’s a veiled threat. But Maul takes the statement at face value. “The Pikes won’t move forward on their own. They have too much to lose if we decide to team up against them.”

Marlo’s huge, expressive eyes narrow as he observes, “The Pikes are your allies, Maul, not ours.”

“The Pikes are not allies. They are investors in our casinos, nothing more.” 

The Hutt considers a long moment. They are at a stalemate, just as Maul has hoped.

Finally, Marlo declares, “The Clan does not want war.”

“Neither does Crimson Dawn.”

“We are agreed on peace?” the Hutt nods.

“Peace,” Maul nods back. 

Inter-gang politics is a delicate thing. He works hard at managing it. But still, it flares up now and then. Thanks to his latest deceit, the Hutts don’t trust their sometime conspirators the Pikes. And the Hutts certainly don’t trust Crimson Dawn since their concern that he plots a gang war kicked off this latest round of treachery. For their part, the Pikes have reestablished their frenemy relationship with his gang, siding with Crimson Dawn against the Hutts who they fear have betrayed them. Basically, the three largest galactic crime syndicates are back to their normal status quo: no one trusts anyone and everyone is vigilant to further funny business. It’s just how Maul likes things. Everyone is a predator and a prey, but no one has the upper hand consistently.

It’s a strategy he learned from his Master. As a Sith Apprentice long ago, he watched as Father stoked trouble and then resolved it, only to stoke it anew. Father alternatively positioned himself as the villain, the victim, and then the peacemaker, as it suited his aims. That example turned out to be excellent preparation for leading Crimson Dawn. From an early age, the ruthless pursuit of self-interest was drummed into the mindset of young Maul. 

His work here is done. He, Rhea, and the rest of the Crimson Dawn delegation walk back to their ship in silence. Once they are safely onboard, Uli swears, “Fuck their peace!” emphatically to a chorus of nods from the others.

He turns back from where he is unfastening the collar around Rhea’s neck. He addresses his men: “We will get revenge.” Father taught him long ago to always get mad and get even. When the time is right, the Hutts will pay for the lives of the dozen they killed.

“So . . . fuck their peace?” Uli looks to him hopefully with eyebrows raised.

“Indeed,” Maul concurs gravely. For every Sith knows that peace is a lie. And this peace, in particular, is a grievous lie. But it averts a gang war in the near term, which will allow him to focus on the rebellion. At a different time, a war might actually hold appeal. The conflict might allow him to grow his enterprise and increase his market share. But if he is to become a dashing rebel hero soon, he needs to abandon the goal of dominating the underworld. It’s time to burnish his good guy cred. A brutal gang war will hinder that objective.

He decides to ride the big ship home rather than fly himself in the fighter. He’s tired and drained from the Force vision and the Hutt confrontation. But it’s all in a day’s work. He’s just checking today’s receipts from the casinos when Rhea approaches to lay her hands lightly on his shoulders. 

“Come to bed?” she whispers as she drops a kiss beneath his right ear.

“In a minute.” He’s got one more message to read. It’s from his Jedi hunters, and it’s good news. That new lead has panned out. They have found a hidden Light Side practitioner. And this time, it’s a Jedi Master.


	26. chapter 26

Building the new rebel base at Yavin 4 turns out to be a huge project for Rhea. This one definitely won’t be done in a month’s time. Or even three months’ time, for that matter. The work gets divided up among several rebel team members, but there is still plenty of coordination and overlap. Rhea spends many, many hours on her comlink pouring over plans and developing lists of issues and questions.

The team spends the first three weeks haggling with engineers and architects to create a master blueprint for the sprawling complex. No actual work can begin until the intensive upfront design work is completed. Unlike on Dantooine, there is no basic infrastructure at the Yavin site. That means outside there are acres of jungle to be cleared for an external landing pad and power generators to be assembled. Inside the temple, there are giant elevators to be installed, as well as lighting, plumbing, and ventilation. Only once the base has basic utilities functioning can they begin to set up the office space, barracks, and common areas. Rhea lets General Dodonna and his men handle the strategic defense issues like where to locate the shield generator and how to outfit the command center and the enormous underground hangar. She’ll handle the specifics for the commissary, the supply areas, the armory, and the many meeting rooms. 

Back at the Dathomir compound, Maul assigns her a small conference room of her very own to use for the project. By the end of the first week, everyone refers to it as her office. Ostensibly, Rhea’s doing arms deals and helping a munitions customer set up a new base of operations in the Rim. But she’s pretty certain that all living at the Crimson Dawn compound know what she’s really up to. Luckily, gang members know how to keep a secret. They pretend to believe the cover story and she doesn’t offer any explanations. The open secret becomes something of an inside joke when Marisol’s husband Uli starts referring to her affectionately as ‘the little General.’ Maul overhears and snort laughs his tacit approval. 

Rhea employs the same fiction for the Yavin contractors, engineers, architects, and tradesmen as she did on Dantooine. They all think they have been hired by Crimson Dawn to build a remote hideout for a notorious spice gang. So if things appear highly militarized and technical at Yavin, it reflects the violence of the underlying business.

While Rhea is hard at work constructing the new headquarters, Maul focuses on unifying the growing rebel movement. The dozen or so Fulcrum agents now crisscross the galaxy attempting to bind together local system dissidents under the overarching umbrella of Bail Organa and Mon Mothma’s political leadership. Most of the existing rebel groups are very receptive to the outreach. Many are relieved to know that they are not alone in their goals. Learning that there is a larger movement afoot to coordinate and combine their efforts makes the goal of overthrowing the Empire finally seem achievable. It probably doesn’t hurt that Major Draven immediately starts smuggling them credits from Darth Plagueis’ bank accounts and weaponry from Maul’s warehouses. The goal is to have well trained, large sleeper cells embedded in all the major systems, ready to be deployed on short notice.

But not every local rebel group is prepared to cede their autonomy. Individual cells have differing goals and sometimes widely divergent experiences with the Empire. On worlds where stormtroopers are ever present and the Empire has cracked down hard on civic freedoms, the mood is decidedly more militant. These people are true insurgents ready to fight and die for their cause. But on other worlds where the local complaints against Imperial rule are largely a question of style and degree, the local people tend to want reforms rather than revolution. They are less interested in war than they are in forcing Emperor Palpatine to the negotiating table. Maul knows that will never happen, but he counsels Draven not to alienate any supporters who are not yet ready to break with the regime. 

They represent the silent majority of the galaxy, Maul contends. They don’t like the Empire and they want it to change, but they don’t want war . . . yet. We need to bring them along. Make them sympathizers and keep the lines of communication open. Over time, Maul predicts, they will join us. When they have seen enough of the Empire’s excesses, they will reach the same conclusions we have. They will be the bell weather indicators for our timing, Maul argues. Because when the moderates are ready for revolution, it’s time to go public with our call for regime change. 

In the meantime, the conflict in the public sphere will mostly be a war of words in the Senate. It’s tough talk in the posture of the loyal opposition. Senator Organa, Senator Mothma, and their political allies plan to keep the heat on the Emperor while still pledging allegiance. They will build the case for revolution by proposing a series of reforms they fully expect to be refused. Little by little, the rebel Senators hope to reveal the Emperor as unreasonable, out of touch, and uncaring. But they won’t just call Palpatine a tyrant, they will show him to be a tyrant by his own actions.

All the while behind the scenes on worlds where open hostilities persist, like Mimban, the secret rebel army quietly supplies manpower, credits, and munitions. The rebel leadership didn’t start those homegrown conflicts, but they support them wholeheartedly. Rhea’s base on Dantooine becomes a busy training ground for combat volunteers, just like Maul had hoped. Crimson Dawn’s boss is a frequent visitor to the base to inspect and train the troops himself. Maul is a hands-on military leader, rather than an arm’s length administrator. It ensures that he knows all the Fulcrum agents personally as well as the local cell capabilities. Every so often, Maul parks a few spice freighters at the base just to maintain the fiction that it’s his gang outpost. So far, the local Dantooine authorities and the Imperial secret police seem none the wiser that hundreds of rebel troops train there monthly in two-week stints.

All this burgeoning galaxy-wide coordination begets a lot of jockeying for titles and responsibility. But at this point, Maul doesn’t overtly engage in the ‘who’s in charge’ gamesmanship. He just busies himself with the indispensable task of building the rebel army. The time will come for open hostilities, Maul tells Rhea, and that’s when my talents and contributions will matter most. For now, he’s content to let Senators Organa and Mothma lead things. Still, Maul takes every opportunity to prop up Bail Organa’s authority, Rhea notices. The two men have struck up an unlikely rapport, with Maul becoming something of a sounding board for Alderaan’s Senator. That’s very intentional. For Maul knows, thanks to the Force, that Bail Organa will perish along with his homeworld. Maul fully intends to step into the power vacuum that untimely death will create. But for now, he positions himself as the power behind the power. It’s very Sith, he chuckles privately.

You have to be careful about angling for position, Maul explains to Rhea. People recoil from naked ambition. It intimidates them. It also invites rivals. Better to appear drafted into service as a reluctant servant leader. People eat up the guise of duty, humility, and modesty as civic virtues. Father always said that you should appear to have to be coaxed to command. It earns you goodwill, Maul maintains. That was Palpatine’s strategy all along, Rhea grumbles back resentfully. She and the rest of the galaxy fell for the sham of the statesman Chancellor who stepped up when the galaxy fell apart.

But even with a unified rebellion taking shape fast, there is far too much local control for Maul’s taste. This is an alliance rather than a true chain of command, he grouses about the inefficiency of it all. But Senator Mothma likes that idea. She starts speaking of their movement as an alliance of likeminded citizens much to Maul’s irritation. This isn’t a rebel alliance, he complains. We’re not neo-Separatists. It’s an armed political revolt to found a new Republic. 

But Maul being Maul, he takes advantage of the rebels’ decentralized organization to quietly encourage the more extremist elements. Maul finds a kindred spirit in the rebel firebrand Saw Guerrera who unabashedly favors terrorist tactics. Maul makes sure Guerrera and his loyal band of militia followers receive more than their share of credits and equipment. Do whatever you want, Maul tells the grizzled, cybernetic Clone Wars veteran. Just don’t tell me in advance so I will feel compelled to stop you. And that’s basically Maul’s military strategy until the rebellion is ready to openly declare war: the political leadership will stay above the fray while covert local dissidents repeatedly punch below the belt. They are trying to goad the Empire into excessive crackdowns that will sway public sentiment. 

To that aim, Maul crafts plans for hit-and-run raids at military targets all across the galaxy. In small, surprise attacks, they will poke at the sleeping Imperial beast until it takes a swipe back. Then, Organa, Mothma, and the other rebel Senators will resoundingly condemn the Empire’s harsh response from the Senate floor. The goal isn’t to win important military victories, but to influence public opinion. Father has a tendency to overreach, Maul explains to Rhea, and Vader is a blunt instrument who can’t resist overkill. This will be easy, he predicts. We will stoke the spark of rebellion into the flames of war, careful to keep the moral high ground despite our terror tactics. When the Empire finally obliterates Alderaan, it will be the last straw. That will be the moment when otherwise loyal, peaceful citizens break ranks and join the rebel cause. 

We need to be ready, Maul tells her as he monitors progress on the new headquarters she’s building. He makes a few suggestions here and there on the construction. But for the most part, Maul delegates the project completely. It tells Rhea that Maul was very sincere in his praise of her work on Dantooine.

Time passes quickly when you are especially busy. Days slip into weeks and into months before you notice. She builds the new secret rebel stronghold while Maul knits together an integrated and armed alliance of rebels. He’s running Crimson Dawn full time as well, keeping the Hutts and the Pikes on their toes. And somehow Maul also manages to search for Jedi. Revenge is still very much his priority. 

As he hopes, that new lead obtained by his dragnet of private Jedi hunters pans out. It’s the end to a rather long dry spell in the search. Maul seems especially excited to bring in this particular fugitive Jedi Master. 

“I want you with me when he arrives,” Maul tells her one night.

Rhea is instantly squeamish. “No, thanks. I don’t want to watch you torture some Jedi.”

“I’m not planning to hurt him unless I have to.”

Really? She shoots Maul a dubious look. She’s seen how these Jedi-meets-Sith conversations go a few times by now. They always end with Maul ripping into his captive’s mind as they fight back in pain. She understands why he does it—finding Obi-Wan Kenobi matters—but she doesn’t like it. She certainly doesn’t want to see it.

But she’s curious now. “How are you going to interrogate this one then? He’s not just going to tell you where Kenobi hides.”

“He might,” Maul answers cryptically.

“Why do I need to be there?” Rhea grumbles.

“Because we’re a team,” Maul answers. And when he puts it like that, how can she refuse? They both know that there’s nothing she won’t do for him.

That’s why two weeks later when the plot to capture this latest Jedi comes to fruition, dutiful Rhea is waiting by Maul’s side when the unlucky prey is marched in. Maul sits behind the desk in his formal office to receive the Jedi this time. It’s not the usual reception in a jail cell that Maul typically employs for these compulsory interviews. It’s the first indication to Rhea that this one will go very differently from the others. 

“Here he is, Boss.” The men who bring the Jedi in pull out a chair and shove the captive down into it. 

Maul watches this treatment and then waves away the handlers. “Dismissed.”

“Guards in the hallway?” the lead man asks. 

Maul declines. “That will not be necessary.” He turns his attention to the blank faced captive seated before him.

Rhea does too. This Jedi Master, like all the rest of his religion’s survivors, lives undercover. His clothes reflect his current profession as a physician at a children’s hospital. The man wears baggy scrubs and a white lab coat with his name, credentials, and hospital affiliation embroidered near the lapel. He’s even got a medical scanner poking out of one pocket ready for use along with some lollipops he must give to his young patients. The Jedi looks like he could be in the middle of doing rounds at a clinic, but for the handcuffs that restrain him. 

He’s a near-human Mirialan in late middle age. In his early sixties probably, Rhea guesses from his pleasantly lined face, slightly fading facial tattoos, and thinning grey hair. He’s rather nondescript and professorial looking. The impression he gives is experienced and, well . . . nice. It’s easy to imagine him taking temperatures and patting heads between serious talks to reassure worried parents. There’s not a mark on him, Rhea also notes with relief from where she stands over Maul’s shoulder. 

Crimson Dawn’s resident Sith lord now begins. “Welcome, Master Timmons. My apologies for the rough treatment, but we take security very seriously.”

There’s no trace of Maul’s usual smirking, smug tone for these confrontations. For once when speaking to a Jedi, Maul is sincere and respectful. That surprises Rhea. Is Maul impressed? Could he be intimidated? This guy is no ordinary Jedi. He’s an expert level Light Sider, she knows. The first ever that Maul has snared.

The captive simply eyes Maul and her with cool calm. He doesn’t look afraid. He doesn’t look angry. He looks composed. It’s the zen dignity Rhea would expect from a bona fide Jedi Master. This man is a Knight of the Old Republic, after all. Incredibly, the guy doesn’t even seem phased by her ruined face. It doesn’t merit a second look as he sizes them both up. But maybe that’s because he’s a doctor and he’s seen worse in his professional capacity.

When everyone has looked their fill and the silence hangs heavy in the air, the Jedi speaks. He quietly corrects Maul. “I am Doctor Sonic Timmons. Who are you? Why have you kidnapped me?”

Maul rises from behind his desk. As he circles the table, he gestures casually with his left hand. The Jedi’s shackles open and clatter to the floor. It’s ostensibly an offhand gesture, but Rhea recognizes it for the showy use of Force that it is. Maul just established that he’s the equal of this Jedi Master.

“You didn’t even put up a fight, I hear,” Maul comments mildly as he leans back against his desk and crosses his arms. “Do you even own a sword still?”

The Jedi answers, “I heal. I do not harm.” 

“Relax,” Maul drawls back at this stern statement of purpose. “I’m not the Empire. You’re not a prisoner. Jedi, you’re my guest,” he says magnanimously.

“I’m not a Jedi. And neither are you. Who are you?”

“My name is Maul.”

“Maul?” The older man squints. He clearly knows the name. “Maul??” the Jedi half chokes as he repeats himself. He visibly pales and recognition fully dawns. “D-Darth Maul??”

Maul seems slightly proud to elicit this reaction. “Does my reputation proceed me?”

The Jedi Master regains his blank demeanor immediately. The brief lapse in disconcerting calm is over. “You’re the Sith who killed Qui-Gon Jinn decades ago. The one Master Kenobi cut in half.” The man’s brow furrows as he recalls aloud, “But you’re dead . . . supposedly . . .”

That’s Maul’s cue to boast, “I’m a hard man to kill. I’m just Maul now. Formerly Darth,” he smirks with no small amount of Dark insouciance.

The Jedi nods slowly as his eyes narrow. “What does that mean exactly?”

“I’m not a Sith lord anymore. You might say that I’ve seen the Light,” Maul chuckles.

The Jedi Master sees no levity in this topic. He probes, “You’re not a Sith?” He looks skeptical, like Rhea knew he would.

Maul turns the man’s own words against him. “I’m no more Sith these days than you are a Jedi.”

Now, the man looks even more skeptical of his host. “What do you want?” he demands again.

“I want to know where Master Kenobi hides.”

“For revenge?” the man guesses, accusing, “You are still a Sith.”

“I want to know where Kenobi hides. We need his help for the rebellion.”

“The rebellion?” The Jedi did not see that response coming. “You know of the rebellion against the Empire?” he blinks.

“Yes. And evidently, so do you,” Maul observes coyly.

“I’m in the local cell on Mirial. I am one of its founders,” the Jedi abruptly reveals.

“Very good. Then you have met Cassian Andor? He’s your Fulcrum contact, yes?”

“Yes. How did you know?” the Jedi squints.

“Like I told you, we’re not the Empire. We’re the rebellion.” Maul purses his lips. “Andor never mentioned there is a Jedi on Mirial. I’ve read all his reports to Draven.”

“Andor doesn’t know. No one knows. I’m not a Jedi anymore. I’m a doctor.” The man squints at Maul again. “So . . . you’re in the rebellion? You . . . Darth Maul . . . are a rebel??”

“I’m just Maul now.” He explains, “Draven and I conceived of the Fulcrum program together. We’re building the organization across the major systems. We’re also building an army. We could use the help of General Kenobi.” 

“And who is she?” the wary Jedi looks to her.

“Rhea is my assistant. She built the new rebel base on Dantooine. It’s where we’re training troops for Mimban.”

“She’s a rebel?”

“Yes,” Rhea declares herself. 

“And you’re a rebel?” The Jedi does not bother to hide his shock. “How did that happen?”

“A lot has happened in thirty years. I want rid of our Sith Emperor—“

“Your old Sith Master, I presume?”

“Yes. I want rid of his fascist regime and his henchman Vader. Master Timmons, we could use a Jedi in our ranks. Especially one of your training.”

“You mistake me. I was never trained for war. I was trained to heal. Besides, I’m a regular doctor now, not a Jedi.”

Maul accepts the rebuff easily enough. “It’s a serious offer. Think it over.”

“I’m a doctor, not a warrior.”

“You’re a doctor who helped to organize a rebel cell to overthrow the current regime,” Maul points out.

The Jedi says nothing. 

Maul shifts gears. “Can you tell us where to find Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

“I don’t know.”

“General Kenobi could be a great asset to us. He’s the only Jedi to ever fight Darth Vader and win.”

“Kenobi fought Vader?” Again, the mask of utter unflappable calm slips. This Jedi is not as indifferent to his old life as he pretends.

“Kenobi is why Vader wears the mask and the suit. We need his help. Tell us where to find him.”

This is the same rationale for finding Kenobi that Maul gave to the Jedi Padawan he got from the Hutt. But this more seasoned Jedi is less accepting of the tale. He cocks his head at Maul. “Why would Kenobi come out of hiding to help you of all people? You’re the last person he would help.”

Maul shrugs. “Times have changed. I have changed. Besides, he’d be helping the rebellion, not me.” Maul fixes yellow eyes on the Jedi and asserts, “We both know that Obi-Wan Kenobi would not hesitate to fight against the Empire. He was committed to the ideals of the Republic and of the Jedi Order. He would want to see freedom and democracy restored to the galaxy.”

The man doesn’t dispute this. “So you’re saying that politics makes strange bedfellows? Is that it?”

“Something like that,” Maul agrees. 

Rhea looks on in silence as Maul continues to gaslight the Jedi. She recognizes the deception as classic Dark Side manipulation. What he’s saying about himself is all technically true. But she knows that for all Maul’s good works for the rebellion, he’s still a Sith when it comes to his revenge quest. “If you know where Kenobi is, tell us. We need his help to save the galaxy from the Sith,” Maul coaxes, adding, “Like we need your help as well.”

The man shakes his head. “I can’t help you locate him. I haven’t lived this long by keeping tabs on Jedi.”

Maul considers a long moment before pronouncing, “I believe you. Do you have his holochron message?”

“I destroyed it. It’s too incriminating. I left that life behind years ago . . . I keep nothing from it. Not even my sword.”

Maul meets his eyes again. “I believe you. I left my old life behind as well.” 

He sounds utterly sincere except Rhea knows better. Maul didn’t leave so much as he was cast out. And years later, she worries that he’s still desperate to reclaim his old identity. His rebellion politics are more a matter of political expediency. Maul would be happy to serve Palpatine and he would be happy to unseat him. He could easily become a rebel hero or become the next Apprentice. She’s not sure Maul really cares which outcome occurs, so long as he becomes something more than a crime lord with the Force.

He has one last question. “Ever been to Tatooine?”

“Never heard of it,” the Jedi answers flatly.

Altogether, it’s a disappointing interview that yields no further leads. This is the moment when Rhea fully expects Maul to drop his polite host routine and lift a black gloved hand to rip into the Jedi’s head to ransack his memories for anything useful. But Maul surprises Rhea with forbearance. He pushes off the desk he leans on and approaches the seated man closer. 

“There are other Jedi survivors,” he reveals. “There is a safe haven for them in the Unknown Regions. It’s a place to flee if the Inquisitors ever find you. If you’re interested, I can put you in touch with a man who can get you there.”

“That sounds like a trap,” the Jedi is understandably wary.

So Maul answers, “Senator Bail Organa of Alderaan is who I would take you to.”

“Senator Organa?”

“Yes. Senator Organa.”

That namedrop gets the man’s attention. It further bolsters Maul’s good guy rebel bona fides. But still, the Jedi declines. “Thank you, but my life on Mirial is secure.”

“I found you,” Maul points out. “Vader could find you too.”

“They’re not looking out in the open.”

“They don’t need to look when your accomplishments draw their attention. Your incredible success stories are outing you. Master Timmons, you work miracles. I’m sure you’re a fine doctor, but you aren’t working miracles with medicine. You’re doing it with the Force.”

The man doesn’t deny it. “Sometimes,” he allows.

“My mother could heal with the Force.”

“Your mother was a Jedi? No, wait—she must have been Sith.”

“She was neither. She was a witch.”

“Oh.” Master Timmons doesn’t seem to know what to make of that comment. It proves Maul’s statements to Rhea that the coven on Dathomir was obscure and largely unnoticed by the two prevailing religions of the Force, the Sith and the Jedi. 

“Only the Light Side heals,” the man frowns as he tries to square what he’s hearing with what he knows.

“That’s true,” Maul concedes. “But Mother’s magic was both Light and Dark. The occult straddles both sides of the Force. Mother healed me after I lost to Kenobi. The Dark Side sustained me, but the Light Side healed me. She did for me what I could not do for myself.”

“So, if you’re not a Sith any longer, what are you now?” the Jedi challenges.

Maul sticks to the story he tells the rebels. “I’m a witch. I am my mother’s son. The last Nightbrother of Dathomir.”

“And that’s different from a Sith?”

“Yes.”

The Jedi’s eyes narrow. “Is this only about finding Kenobi?”

“And recruiting you to our cause.”

“I told you. I’m a doctor, not a warrior. I’m not who you need for a war. I’m a foot soldier at best, not a substitute for General Kenobi.”

“Very well, then,” Maul backs down gracefully. “It’s an open offer.” 

And now, things take an unexpected turn. “Today is also about my assistant here,” Maul gestures to her. “Rhea is a war orphan who was gunned down by a battle droid as a child. She needed someone of your talents, but she only received traditional medicine. If it’s not too late, I want you to heal her.”

Blindsided Rhea reacts before the Jedi can respond. “Maul!” she gasps.

He ignores her and makes his case to the Jedi. “She’s risking her life to oust Sheev Palpatine. To bring him to justice. I want you to heal her.”

“But Maul!” She is flabbergasted. And now she understands why he wanted her at this meeting. This was a set up all along. Was this ever even about finding Kenobi?

“Help her,” Maul tells the Jedi Master. “Have mercy on her innocent suffering. Reward her valor.”

Rhea steps from behind the desk and pushes in front of Maul to stand before the still seated Jedi. “No! No!” she vehemently objects. “Doctor, he’s the one who needs your help. He—he—he’s . . .“ She falters. She won’t reveal the full extent of Maul’s injuries. It would humiliate him. “He’s hurt . . . very badly . . .” 

“Kenobi cut him in half.”

“Y-Yes!” The Jedi clearly gets the gist. “Please help him, Mister Jedi—Doctor Jedi—“

“Rhea—" Maul growls. 

“Please!” she outright begs. “He’s much too proud to ask for himself. He has so much pain still. He tries to hide it, but I see it. And—"

“Rhea—“ Maul’s growl has true menace now. “This isn’t about me.”

“Of course, it is!” she hisses. “My injury is only superficial. But yours is not.” Rhea will not be silenced. She pleads to the Jedi as she wrings her hands. “He has suffered so much, for so long. He’s not perfect, he’s made mistakes, but that’s in the past. He’s doing the right things now with Bail Organa and Mon Mothma—"

“Rhea—"

“He’s a spice kingpin, is he not?” The Jedi raises a skeptical eyebrow at her fervent character witnessing. “That’s what his men told me.”

“Yes, but he’s built the rebel army,” she sputters and wails. “He’s saved Jedi—he’s going to kill Darth Vader—“

“Well, that’s true,” Maul concedes. 

The Jedi keeps looking between them both, taking in their argument over who deserves his help more. He appears both intrigued and perplexed as he watches closely.

Maul shoots her a vicious look now to shut her up. Then, he turns to the Jedi and demands, “Heal her. She was a child maimed in the war. A victim of the revolution the Sith plotted for years. She’s my victim in a way,” Maul admits awkwardly with an apologetic glance her way. “Jedi, take pity,” he outright implores. “Only you can help her. Traditional medicine cannot.”

“But Maul—“ Rhea has turned into him, her hands reaching to grip at his sleeves. “Maul, you need this . . . you know you need this,” she argues as she looks up into his handsome face. He’s her red skinned Zabrak prince with the crown of horns to prove it. And he needs this Jedi’s talents far more than she does. “You need to be as strong as possible when you confront Vader. This could help you, but it could also help the rest of us.” He starts to speak, but she boldly overrides him. “You’re the hero we need! The rebellion is counting on you! The galaxy is counting on you!”

Those soulful, bloodshot yellow eyes lock with hers. She’s laying on the hard sell because she knows how much Maul craves a purpose for his suffering and rejection. Backing the rebellion is a means to reclaim his power and position in a redemption of sorts. He’ll either end up redeemed as the prodigal son of Darkness reconciled with his Father-Master or redeemed in the eyes of the Jedi-loving rebels as the former Sith who saw the Light. Rhea fears for the former even as she hopes for the latter. 

How can he be poised to accept either side? Because however the future shakes out, she knows it may be less a choice of what Maul wants than a compromise for what he can get. Still, Rhea has a sneaking suspicion that Maul’s slippery allegiances are the best evidence yet of his deep seeded Sith mindset. Because when the time comes, she suspects Maul will do and say whatever it takes to advance himself. It’s all about him, of course. But that doesn’t mean that the galaxy can’t profit from his aims.

So she digs into her appeal. “You know I’m right,” she whispers. “Maul, you matter far more than I do. Don’t let my vanity stand in the way of your health and maybe even our victory.”

“So Light . . . always so Light,” Maul murmurs as he looks down on her selflessness with absolute approval. 

Is that a yes? Rhea presses, “Let him help you,” and then holds her breath. 

But Maul declines again. “He can’t help me.” Maul sighs heavily. He looks down and away. “I wish he could, but he can’t.”

“He c-can’t?” Confused Rhea looks to the Jedi for confirmation. “You c-can’t?”

Maul is resigned and bitter. “Mother did her best but even she couldn’t do much to heal an amputation as severe as mine. And this guy is nothing like Mother.” Maul glances up to the Jedi and snarls, “Tell her.”

Master Timmons speaks. “I cannot regenerate limbs. No one alive can do that.”

“Oh,” Rhea voice grows small with disappointment.

Maul now reaches to cup her ruined cheek with his gloved hand. “Let me do this for you,” he whispers. “You deserve this.”

“B-But—“

He turns back to the Jedi again. “Work a miracle,” he commands. “She’s beautiful inside. She’s beautiful outside too. But she can’t see it. Make her feel beautiful again.”

Miserable Rhea just stands there in confusion.

The Jedi looks to her. “Do you want this?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“It’s okay to want something for yourself,” Maul encourages in a low voice.

The Jedi nods his agreement.

“Will it hurt?” she squeaks in a panic.

“Not usually,” the doctor answers. 

“What will it look like afterwards?”

“Much better, I hope.”

“But not worse?” she worries. “For certain, it won’t look worse?”

“It will look better,” the doctor assures her. 

Maul now urges, “Trust in the Force,” as the doctor nods his agreement. “Don’t fight him. Accept him. Like you accept me into your mind.”

“Well, o-okay . . .” Rhea answers slowly as she reddens at the private reference to their bedroom antics. 

She’s scared now. This opportunity has been sprung on her. There isn’t time to think it over. To obsess and worry . . . to get her hopes up . . . to be excited. Before Rhea knows it, she’s the one sitting in the chair and the Jedi hovers over her. 

“Close your eyes and do not fear,” Master Timmons instructs.

Maul assures her, “I’ll be here,” as she instinctively looks to him for guidance. “I’ll be here,” he soothes again as she reaches out a nervous hand to him. 

“Ready?” It’s the Jedi looking for her approval.

“She’s ready,” Maul answers for her. 

“Ready?” The Jedi is pointedly looking for her own response.

“I guess . . .” Rhea nods weakly as she clamps down on Maul’s gloved hand like her life depends on it. 

The Jedi begins his magic now. Rhea has felt Maul’s mind in hers many times before, experiencing his yearning, driving passion during their lovemaking. But this is different. The Jedi’s not so much in her mind as his power is in her body. It’s a rush of peaceful calm that quiets her senses and allows everything else to recede. It balms her trepidation, for under the Jedi’s healing spell there is no pain, no angst, no worry, and no hurt. Just vibrant, pulsating life, restorative healing, and also something that feel like unconditional acceptance.

“Don’t fight him.” It’s Maul’s voice. “Surrender to the Force.”

She complies as best she can, not really knowing what that means. But she tries to remain calm as her skin begins to feel hot and tingly. Itchy, too. Soon it’s unbearably itchy.

Maul keeps talking her through it. “Breathe deep. Let the Force flow through you.”

Is this the Force? Rhea mostly feels hypersensitive and strangely adrift. It’s not a bad feeling, but it’s unfamiliar and therefore scary. Just when she’s starting to feel really uncomfortable, it ends. 

“That’s it?” she breathes out.

“Well done.” It’s Maul’s high tenor rasp. Is he talking to her? To Master Timmons? Rhea opens her eyes. 

The two men are peering at her. She can’t read their expressions. “Did it work?” she half-shrieks with anxiety. 

Maul nods open mouthed. “It worked,” he whispers, looking a little haunted. 

She is alarmed. “D-Doctor??” she looks to the Jedi. He looks pleased and also a little taken aback.

“Go see for yourself.” Maul points in the direction of the small bath that adjoins his office. “There’s a mirror in there.”

Rhea leaps up from her chair, dashes past the two men, and races to see. “It’s . . . it’s normal,” she breathes out in disbelief. Her cheek looks completely normal. She touches her face, running trembling fingers across her now smooth, even-colored face to confirm that what she sees is truly real. Her mouth is slack with wondrous surprise. This is a dream come true. A gift like no other. She’s processing it in real time. Her heart is racing and her breathing is fast. “Oh my . . .” 

“Well done,” Maul again commends the Jedi gravely.

Rhea can’t stop staring in the mirror. She turns her face side to side to compare profiles. She never thought the left and right would ever match again. But now, you can’t tell which side was injured.

From the moment she awoke in a hospital bed and someone apologetically handed her a mirror, Rhea has had to accept deformity. In time, she grew accustomed to the second looks, the pitiful glances, the outright revulsed stares, and the awkward comments from strangers. But she never mastered indifference. She might ignore others’ reactions, but that’s not the same as not noticing them. And no matter how steely your sense of self-worth, it is hard to combat the constant reminders of your inadequacy. Rhea knows that, in the end, how others treat you often becomes how you see yourself. For you can’t help but absorb some of the prevailing attitudes of the world around you. So when the world considers you an ugly freak, you feel like one. 

“Smile. Let us see,” the doctor prods her. 

Rhea turns to comply. It takes a little effort, perhaps because the muscles on the wounded side are a little weak. But she can smile and both cheeks lift simultaneously and symmetrically. It’s a mundane thing but also completely remarkable. She turns back to the mirror to see for herself what it looks like. And it’s perfect. Her new smile looks like nothing ever occurred. It’s like the intervening years since the war were a nightmare that she has finally woken up from.

Rhea starts to giggle nervously even as she blinks back tears. She can’t stop looking in the mirror as she processes so many overwhelming emotions. She is overjoyed and relieved, amazed and pleased, bewildered and a little shocked. But most of all, she is grateful. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” she gushes while still examining herself. She’s inches from the mirror now for an up-close inspection.

“Go show Mrs. Nettles,” Maul suggests gently.

She needs no further encouragement. Rhea rushes into the hallway calling out loudly for the housekeeper. It’s done with a childish, casual abandon that is out of place in this formal, businesslike setting. But her excitement cannot be contained. This is big news and she can’t wait to share it. 

Marisol hears her first. The housemaid comes running to Maul’s formal office where she knows a meeting has been ongoing. 

“Did someone die? I’ll go get the disinfectant and a body bag,” the no nonsense woman is ready for another gruesome cleanup. 

Rhea’s halfway down the hall, but she hears her counterpart. Rhea rushes back to the office to show off her miraculous cure. She and Marisol stand in the open doorway to Maul’s formal office, squealing and exclaiming their mutual surprise and delight at the transformation. 

That’s when Mrs. Nettles walks up. “What’s all this ruckus?” the gruff housekeeper complains. “You’re going to disturb the boss with all this shrieking,” she reproves with a hard look. But that’s when she catches sight of Rhea’s face. That brief moment is all it takes for Mrs. Nettles to understand what the fuss is about. And now, Mrs. Nettles joins in the happiness.

“Rhea, look at you! You’re fixed! And you’re beautiful!” the older woman pronounces as she limps forward on her bum knee. She starts a rapid-fire of commands and questions. “Let me see. Stand still. I need a good look. How did this happen?”

“The Force!” Rhea beams like the true believer she is now.

“Maul did this?” The housekeeper rears back to glance into the office beside them. She frowns at her boss across the room and barks, “What took you so long?” in her typical blunt fashion. 

Rhea too glances over. She sees Master Timmons watching Maul watching her. Maul is smiling in a rare moment. As soon as the women catch him, he immediately reverts to his usual glower.

“Our Jedi guest healed her,” Maul disavows responsibility. 

“Only the Light heals,” Master Timmons now intones with plenty of Jedi sanctimony. “All who seek the Light can be healed . . . in one way or another.” That last bit is for Maul’s benefit apparently. For the Jedi is looking at the one-time, maybe-still Sith lord rather pointedly. 

But Mrs. Nettles and Marisol are ignorant of the lore of the Force. The distinctions of Light and Dark mean nothing to them. They shrug off the Jedi’s preaching and resume celebrating with Rhea. There are tears and hugs all around. 

“This calls for champagne at dinner,” the housekeeper declares this good fortune party-worthy. “A toast to Rhea and a toast to the Force.”

“Amen to that,” Marisol seconds the suggestion cheekily. She looks around the formal office. “So no one’s dead? There’s nothing to clean up? If so, then I’ll get back to work.”

“Me too,” the taskmaster housekeeper decides. 

That just leaves jubilant Rhea alone with the Jedi and Maul. 

“I didn’t believe it would actually work,” she confesses sheepishly as she rejoins Maul.

“All things are possible in the Force,” he answers reverently.

The Jedi shoots his counterpart an amused look. “I was about to say that.”

“The Light . . . the Dark . . . they each have their power and their place,” Maul continues softly.

“I was not about to say that,” the Jedi grumbles. 

“That’s why your religion is gone,” Maul retorts. “Because you failed to appreciate the merits of your enemy.” Now, he re-ups his earlier offer. “I can take you as far as Alderaan. Senator Organa can get you to the safe haven.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Master Timmons again declines. “I won’t hide.”

“If I found you, Vader can find you.”

“I’ll take that risk.” The Jedi Master gestures to Rhea. “What you just saw—all that joy—that is worth the risk. Moments like that are why I live and work in the open. I can’t help people in some hidden Jedi enclave. I signed up for a life of service . . . to make a contribution. I can’t do that in hiding.”

“It’s your choice,” Maul shrugs. “My men will drop you back home. If you change your mind, come find me.”

“I will.” The Jedi eyes Maul as if trying to decide if he’s an enemy or not. His conclusion is an unsatisfactory observation: “You’re not who I expected you to be.”

Maul grunts. “Disappointed? I haven’t been the man you were expecting me to be for decades now.”

“I sure didn’t anticipate finding you in the rebellion.”

“Nothing has turned out like our younger selves thought it would,” Maul harrumphs.

The Jedi Master shares this pathos. For a moment, he looks truly old. “It’s never too late to turn to the good side,” he now makes a low-key pitch at Jedi proselytizing. “Maul, I think you’re partway there already.”

Maul grunts again. “It’s the Light Side, not the good side.”

The Jedi, of course, fails to perceive the difference. But Rhea does. Life presents many moral compromises. That’s something she didn’t understand as a sheltered child, but she does now. You don’t get the luxury of choosing the right thing every time. Moreover, in real life choosing the right thing doesn’t always yield a happy ending like it does in fairytales. It doesn’t always make you good either. Life is more complicated than that, unfortunately.

Good people can have failings. Bad people can have redeeming qualities. Most of us are a mixed bag morally. What worse, many of the political and social causes we like to ascribe the weight of morality to are not true right/wrong choices. They are considerations of priorities more than anything. Layer in the Force like the Jedi and Sith religions are wont to do, and morality becomes an even more muddled matter of intentions, actions, and means. But somehow, everyone seems comfortable speaking of it in stark, certain terms anyway. 

That frustrates Rhea. It’s not that there is not any distinction between good and evil, it’s that those choices don’t always present themselves in neat packages. And that means far too much of life feels like improvised situational ethics to Rhea . . . and she’s fine with that. It's in large part because she’s a member of a criminal organization who plots violent treason and yet she still considers herself to be a good person. And also because Light things such as the Jedi healing her face can come out of Dark things like Maul’s obsession with revenge. 

The Light Side is equal parts sanctimony and truly good intentions, as far as Rhea can tell. The Jedi are always out to save your soul by convincing you of their ideology. And the Dark Side is tough love and sly thinking punctuated by violence. It’s cynicism and hate that preys on your fears and mocks your ideals as naiveté. But still . . . it’s undeniably effective. And it might be what the galaxy needs right now to take on Darth Sidious.

So to Hell with all the drama over who’s the good guy and who’s the bad guy. It doesn’t matter who’s Light and who’s Dark. As Rhea watches Maul and Master Timmons continue to alternately respect and disdain one another, she thinks that, at least for today, they’re both the good guys. They wouldn’t see it that way, of course. But people rarely perceive the whole truth of themselves. 

“Is that your best ‘join me’ speech?” Maul drawls at his counterpart. His lips have a sardonic twist.

The Jedi Master nods.

“’Join me’ is my line. I’m the Sith.”

“I thought you were a witch now.”

“I’m not sure what I am,” Maul admits. Looking away, he recalls, “I gave one of those speeches once to a Jedi years ago. It worked about as well as yours did.”

“Very well,” Master Timmons concedes. “It’s an open offer.”

“That’s my line too,” Maul grumbles. It makes Rhea smile.


	27. chapter 27

News travels fast. Because five days after the Jedi Master heals Rhea, Maul receives a surprise visit from none other than Darth Plagueis the Wise. 

Maul positions himself in his formal office for the interview. As the zombie Sith Master limps in, he crosses his arms and greets his guest with tepid enthusiasm. “You’re not supposed to be here until next week.”

“Happy to see you too,” the blithe Muun shoots back. As always, he is never cowed. The man’s effortless aplomb is both envy inducing and irritating. Maul can’t help but wish he had Plagueis’ wellspring of confidence. The guy loses his Empire to his Apprentice and ends up looking like a walking corpse. But if he’s perturbed about the state of affairs, it doesn’t show much.

“I came to see for myself,” the gargoyle faced Sith Master croaks out. “Where is your little green girlfriend?”

“Rhea? You came to see Rhea?”

“Yes, yes.” Plagueis is impatient. “Where is she? Let me see her.”

Maul’s eyes narrow. “What’s this about? Mad she’s spending too many credits on Yavin?” Rhea is spending a fortune on the new rebel base. It’s budgeted at half of Crimson Dawn’s annual profits. 

But filthy rich old Plagueis is indifferent to the cash outlay. “I don’t care what she spends. I want to see her face. I came to see her new smile.”

Oh. Maul squints at the Sith elder. “That’s what this is about?” He never would have guessed. 

“Yes. Fetch her.”

Hold on. “Who told you?”

“Bail Organa. Now, fetch her forthwith. I wish to see this miracle for myself.”

Plagueis actually crossed the galaxy to see a Jedi Master’s healing skill? Well, naturally, Maul figures. He must be thinking of the possibilities for his own broken body. “Very well.” He summons Rhea from her office with his comlink. 

Rhea reports immediately as requested. She hovers in the doorway, eyeing Plagueis curiously. “Sir, you wished to see me?”

Maul nods. “Come in, Ms. Cardulla.”

Plagueis snorts at this show of arm’s length formality between them. “Do you two keep up this charade for everyone? It must be exhausting. No one’s fooled, you know.”

Maul ignores him. “Our guest has heard of your recovery. Show him, Rhea, so he will go away and let us go about our business.”

“Of course, Sir.” Rhea is graceful in her obedience. She steps forward to present herself for inspection.

Plagueis is all over her in an instant. Apparently, the decrepit Muun can move plenty fast when he wants to. “Let me see, my dear. Now don’t be shy,” creepy old Plagueis coos as he lays giant clawed hands on her slight shoulders. 

Maul bristles at this physical liberty. It’s unnecessary and far too familiar, even if it’s chaste.

“Allow me to admire your beauty,” the Muun purrs as he lifts Rhea’s chin with a spindly finger. “Astounding . . . absolutely astounding . . .” he marvels at the Jedi’s work. 

“It is, isn’t it,” Maul quietly agrees. 

“Yes. Behold the power of the Force,” the Dark Master intones reverently. Yellow eyes dart to find yellow eyes. They are suspicious. “This was no first attempt. This is the work of a very experienced Force healer.”

When Maul makes no reply, Plagueis snorts, “Now, she’s definitely too good for you.”

He decides that the Muun has seen enough. “Take your hands off her. Show’s over.”

“So beguiling she is,” Plagueis strokes Rhea’s healed cheek even as her wary eyes silently plead for him to intercede. “She was always unconventionally beautiful. Now, she’s sure to turn heads.”

Maul takes a step forward and the Muun stops pawing Rhea. Plagueis’ attention is all for him now. “How you must enjoy her. Oh, wait—I forgot,” the exiled lord smirks. “You can’t enjoy her.”

Enough of this. Maul hisses, “Rhea, get out. That will be all.”

“Yes, Sir.” She can’t run away fast enough.

“Run along to my ship,” the cheeky zombie calls after her. “Runaway with me to the Unknown Regions—“

“Plagueis—“

The dirty old Sith is unrepentant. “Can you blame me for trying?“

Rhea pauses in the doorway. “Don’t try. It won’t work,” she informs her unwanted admirer flatly. She’s looking over her shoulder, those pretty lekku swaying with her abrupt halt and the pointed look she’s flashing. 

“Now I want you even more!” the leering Muun chuckles deep in his throat. “I love a loyal woman. They’re so rare. And look at all your new confidence, my dear. Your doing, I presume, Maul?”

Maybe their relationship has given Rhea a new sense of security and self-worth. But Maul thinks her work with the rebellion and her newly healed face have contributed far more to her resolve. Still, whatever the reason, he loves seeing her blossom into a more poised version of her sweet self. But right now, Maul would prefer that Rhea be safely away from this confrontation masquerading as a conversation.

“Rhea, get out,” he orders again. 

She nods and flees. 

Maul now advances on his obnoxious guest. “You got what you came to see. Time to leave.”

“Oh no, Lord Maul. I want to hear all about the Force healing. All about it.” To underscore this point, his guest collapses into the nearest chair. He makes himself comfortable and starts arranging his voluminous robes.

Maul groans audibly.

Plagueis ignores the hint. “Well, fess up. You had a hand in it, did you not?“

Did he? He located the Jedi, that’s all. Then he helped to convince Rhea to try the Force healing and held her hand while the Jedi worked. But he didn’t actually perform any healing himself. He was more like a helpful bystander.

Plagueis notes his hesitation. “Well, did you? Don’t dare lie to me, Lord Maul. Have you been hiding skills from me all this time?”

“A Jedi Master healed her. He works undercover as a doctor at a hospital on Mirial.”

“Yes, that’s the cover story, I understand.”

“It’s the truth.”

“The whole truth? Your mother could heal. Did she teach you to heal?“ the Muun demands. 

“What do you care? Go find that Jedi if you want to look prettier,” Maul scorns.

“This isn’t about me.” Darth Plagueis abruptly stands to his full seven foot height. He wags a finger under Maul’s nose as he complains, “I want to know if you heal with the Light.”

Maul cocks his head and stands his ground. “Come to preach about balance? Save your breath.”

“I’ll ask you again: did you help heal her?” the Muun growls. 

Why are they arguing about this? “I told you. The Jedi healed her. His name is Dr. Sonic Timmons.”

“I’m asking about you, not about the Jedi.” Darth Plagueis peers down at him now. “There was a time long ago when I thought that you might be the one. It made a certain sense at the time. A child born neither Jedi nor Sith, destined to live outside their orthodoxies.”

“I was raised a Sith,” Maul reminds him.

“Yes. That was no accident. That was very intentional. So I ask you again, did you heal her? Do you secretly practice the Light?”

This feels like an interrogation, maybe even an accusation. “What do you take me for?” he snarls back. “I am every bit as Sith as you are—maybe more since you’re the one playing Padawan with your Jedi conclave in the Unknown Regions! I might no longer be the Apprentice, but I am still trained for Darkness,” he retorts. His ego is pricked and he’s feeling stung. Like he’s being called out for being a Jedi lightweight. “Do not underestimate my Darkness!” Maul spits his words into the Muun’s ruined face.

“Hmmmm . . . “ is old Plagueis’ cryptic reply.

And what the Hell is that supposed to mean? Maul fumes at the implication of doubt. 

“Sheev said she was so certain . . .”

“Who was certain?”

“Mother Talzin.”

“Certain about what?”

“You.”

What?? Maul is lost in the unspoken subtext of this confrontation. What is the Muun really getting at?

“She claimed that you would never be one of us. She told Sheev he could take you, but he’d never have you, no matter what he did. Said she had foreseen what you would become.”

“Mother hated Father.” She was irrational where Darth Sidious was concerned. Mostly because she loved her stolen firstborn son so much. And Maul could never fault Mother for that.

“It was more than spite. It was destiny . . . or so she claimed.” And, yes, that sounds like Mother. She could be every bit as grandiose as Father is wont to be at times.

Who is he? Is he really Sith all these years later? Maul’s not entirely sure lately. But he’s not about to admit that to Darth Plagueis the Wise. 

And so, he huffs, “I am a Nightbrother, the last of my kind. And I am a Sith lord, even if I am no longer the favorite son. But I am not now, nor will I ever be, a Jedi. I leave that folly to you, you old heretic!”

The Muun disbelieves him. He asks under his breath, “Have you tried dabbling in the Light?” like he’s asking about something highly personal and embarrassing.

Maul recoils reflexively. “Why would I do that?”

“To heal your disfigured girlfriend. To heal yourself.”

“I can’t heal. I told you—a Jedi Master healed her. He didn’t bother trying to heal me. I’m a hopeless case,” Maul sighs. 

“All things are possible in the Force,” Plagueis replies softly. And he might be right, but the Force in its infinite wisdom has not seen fit to bestow the power he needs on anyone volunteering to help.

“There’s no one left alive who can heal me,” Maul bemoans the awful truth.

“The Chosen One might do it.”

That reference to his latest replacement is like rubbing salt in his wounds. Maul jeers, “Do you think Vader wears a suit, a mask, and a respirator because he’s secretly the most miraculous Jedi healer ever?” That’s ridiculous. “You’re getting gullible in your exile, old man. Stop listening to those Jedi you foster telling you tales of the Light Side savior who’ll come to save us all. It’s a lie!”

That gets a reaction out of the sanctimonious zombie. “Do not doubt the Force—"

“I don’t! But neither do I believe in legends and fairytales. Especially the Jedi variety.”

The Muun takes the rebuke. He settles on a neutral topic to end the argument. “I’m glad that Rhea is healed.”

He nods. “She’s happier than I’ve ever seen her.”

“Still, I will miss that fascinating face,” old Plagueis muses thoughtfully.

“She doesn’t.”

“More men will now see what you saw all along—that she is beautiful. Be careful that you don’t lose her. Men will begin to approach her.”

“I’ll kill anyone who approaches her—including you,” Maul growls. 

The hideous Muun just smirks. He shifts gears now. “Enough about that. Tell me why Ahsoka Tano still lives.”

“I haven’t had time to kill her.”

“Make the time,” his Master’s Master orders. “As long as Skywalker’s Padawan lives, the seed of the Jedi Order lives. They kicked her out, and she became more Jedi than ever. I want her dead.”

The conversation moves on from there. But Plagueis’ warning—that Rhea will be lured away by a rival—hits home. It burrows deep. And now, Maul has yet another concern to keep him up at night. 

He has long hid his personal insecurities. From using frontmen like Dryden Vos, to the shiny boots he wears in public, to his mysterious past, Maul takes pains to hide his shortcomings. But still . . . he is ashamed of his embarrassing crime career, of his ruined body, and of his failure to reach his full Sith potential. Maul routinely obsesses over all the ways he merits Father’s disdain. And now, he obsesses that Rhea too may one day come to reject him. And then, he will be alone again. The thought terrifies him. 

Plagueis was not wrong to notice the subtle change in Rhea. As days become weeks, she grows more accustomed to her healed face. She also grows more confident. That confidence is attractive. Rhea now has that elusive trifecta of lures which makes a woman irresistible: she’s smart, she’s poised, and she’s beautiful. Add in youth and a sweet demeanor that’s eager to please, and any man would want to have her. But instead of making Maul proud to call her his own, those qualities now have him feeling threatened. Very threatened.

Dark Sith that he is, his first inclination is to control her. To make certain that Rhea has no opportunity to leave him. He will possess and own her. She will be his . . . forever his. But that strategy is all wrong and it could backfire spectacularly, pushing Rhea away rather than keeping her at his side. He knows better than to clip her wings. He won’t restrict her activities or intrusively monitor her comlink. Those heavy handed, overbearing tactics belong to a brute like Vader. All that underlying mistrust smacks of paranoid Father. Well, he is neither of those men. He is better than that. And besides, Rhea brings out the Light in him. Plagueis has seen it all along. Even that Jedi Master healer saw it. So, Maul plots an unexpected strategy. It’s a charm offensive. He will woo Rhea so she won’t be tempted to stray. 

But how? He wishes he had more time to give her. They are both so busy that they are lucky to get a full hour a day together. Some days, she’s already asleep when he comes into the bedroom. Last night, she fell asleep on the couch with her datapad in her lap waiting for him. Rhea had looked adorable as she rather prosaically snored away. The snoring is a side effect of the Force healing for some reason. Rhea never used to do that. But at least she was home. More and more lately, she’s been away at Yavin. It means limited opportunities for romantic dinners and languid seductions. Most evenings together are quiet, homey affairs filled with hasty meals, showers, shop talk, and gang gossip. 

But maybe that’s the real risk for losing Rhea—that familiarity will breed contempt. His boring humdrum existence in a quiet corner of the galaxy will bore a young hottie like her. Same old, same old is the enemy, Maul decides. 

He settles on a two-prong approach to keep his lover. First, he will demonstrate his appreciation with tangible means. He buys Rhea a new ship of her very own. It’s a flashy midsized transport with the zippy hyperdrive of a military light fighter and the shielding of an Imperial cruiser. It’s painted crimson red with the gang insignia on its underside. He figures that it’s far better for Rhea to get arrested as a gang member than as a traitor. And if the Empire ever comes to suspect that her gang affiliation is merely a cover for her rebel activity, then hopefully they will seek to use her to get to him. Maul doesn’t want Rhea fighting his battles for him. He won’t let her take the fall for his treason. Hopefully, this conspicuous ship will shift attention to him as the bigger target.

Rhea likes the ship, but she likes the new jeweled headband he buys her even more. Twi’lek females are accustomed to wearing decorative head wraps. Some have chin straps, but this one does not. It is elegant in its spare size and design, even though it sparkles aplenty. It comes complete with matching optional cords to wrap her lekku for a truly dazzling effect. Worn together, Rhea looks like Ryloth’s princess in exile, not like the former housemaid and gangster’s moll that she is. It’s a big upgrade from the plain brown leather variety she has long worn that shows wear at its fraying ends.

Rhea shrieks with surprise when he presents the gift. It’s so extravagant, she gushes. But he insists that she wear at least the headband and one of the new dresses he buys her when she accompanies him to important meetings. Rhea drips with diamonds at his side while he does his best to radiate intimidating power. Together they are the beauty and the beast of Crimson Dawn. 

But is he fun enough for Rhea? Maul worries that her life is all work and no play. That she’s surrounded by a staff of coworkers who are mostly twice her age. So he resolves to give her—and him—more amusement and some glamour. It’s part two of his strategy to keep her. His go-to solution? Canto Bight. With Rhea flashing her new jewelry and an even brighter smile, they descend on his most exclusive casino for a night on the town. She’s a low stakes gambler who mostly enjoys seeing and being seen. Rhea sips on champagne and happily feeds credits into the slot machines while he conducts business from the rear table at a bar just off the main casino floor. From his vantage point, he can see her clearly. 

That means he’s watching when a high roller approaches her. It’s not a test, but Rhea passes all the same. For she smiles at the guy prettily even as she promptly heads for his side. When the man persists in following her into the bar, Maul nods to the floor manager and asks him to intervene. Rhea dutifully reports seconds before the floor manager arrives with the guy who hit on her in tow. Maul plays it cool. He slips a conspicuous arm around Rhea even as he invites the high roller to sit down and gets him a drink. They make a pretense of small talk as Maul silently claims Rhea as his girl. The high roller is respectful about the whole thing and takes all of Maul’s cues. Maul ends the interview by wishing the man luck at the tables and comping him a top tier ultraluxury suite for the weekend. 

Rhea snuggles up under his arm and whispers she approves. I couldn’t kill the guy for having good taste, Maul grouses back. Then, Rhea goes back to the slots and he gets back to business.

Date night at Canto Bight becomes a habit for them. He gets to be a frequent and visible presence at the territory he shares with his shifty Pike investors. Rhea gets a break from the monotony of construction timetables and procurement lists. It’s the change of scenery they both need and a chance for some couple time. Plus, seeing Rhea rebuff a near continuous string of admirers helps ease his worried ego. 

She’s gorgeous sashaying across the casino floor in high heels, those graceful lekku gently swaying. He’s seated yards away in the back of the bar observing, but it’s still excellent foreplay. Watching other men watch Rhea makes him want her more than ever. Something about knowing other people covet what you have makes you value it higher. So some nights, Maul takes Rhea upstairs to a room in the casino rather than wait until he gets her back to their ship. She’s just too enticing.

But sex is yet another source of insecurity for him. Because is he enough for Rhea in bed? His virgin lover doesn’t know anything other than him. But . . . what if Rhea gets curious? What if she wants to sleep with a whole man . . . with a real man . . . not with some eunuch cyborg? What then? He’s always resisted the whole robo-dick thing. He deemed it unnecessary, unsatisfactory, and, well, kind of pathetic. But that was before Rhea. He has more than himself to think about now. So, he starts entertaining the idea. 

Like every good Sith, he knows that fear is a great motivator. Fear works on others and it works on him as well. For fear of loss is one of the most potent versions of dread. It can lead you to do things you would otherwise never do. Like installing a robo-dick on your prosthesis.

He knows Rhea loves him, but he also knows that love is not enough. Father loved him and still spurned him. Could Rhea do the same? Moreover, if their roles were reversed, would he stay in the relationship long term? Could he be content with a limited sex life with a disabled woman, even if he loved her? Of course, not . . . well . . . maybe . . .

Maul debates at length with himself. Finally, worried that he’s overthinking things like usual, he takes the plunge on what he views as a compromise solution. But he spends so much time obsessing over whether to try this option that he omits careful consideration of how to broach the topic with Rhea. That turns out to be a mistake. His direct approach one night after dinner begins smooth but devolves quickly into a downward spiral of awkwardness. 

“I have something for you. Well, for us.” He retrieves a box from a locked drawer of his desk and hands it to her.

“Is this another gift? You are spoiling me,” Rhea complains even as she smiles wide enough to show dimples. 

“Open it.” He’s nervous and he wants this over with. 

Rhea dutifully tears into the nondescript package that looks very intentionally like it could contain anything. Rhea fishes around inside and finds the gift encased in a small black velvet bag. “More jewelry?” 

“No. Not this time.”

She opens the bag and plucks out the contents. “Huh.” He watches as she turns it over in her hands. She squints at it. “Is it a tool? It’s kind of squishy for a tool.” She squeezes it hard.

“Guess again.”

She considers further. “Is it art?”

He snorts. 

“Okay, I give up. What is it? Tell me,” she laughs at his flummoxed expression. 

“You really have no idea?” For a girl who worked years changing bedsheets in a brothel, Rhea can be surprisingly sheltered at times. Has she really never seen a sex toy before?

She giggles and leans in. She’s embarrassed as she confides, “Well, it looks a little like a—“

“It is.”

“It is??” she gasps, eyes wide.

“It is.” There. He said it. Sort of.

“Oh!” Rhea shrieks and drops it. Maul stifles a groan. That’s not the reaction he was hoping for. 

He frowns at the rejected appendage laying on the floor. This is not going over well. 

Rhea gingerly retrieves it and stares at it curiously. She’s acting it might bite her, and that’s all wrong. “Er . . . where does it go?” she asks after a long moment.

“The usual locations.”

Rhea nods slowly. “It looks big.”

“It’s not big. I used to be bigger,” he boasts. “Much bigger.”

“Are you sure? Because it looks big. Like it belongs to a rancor.”

“I was very big. Rancor big,” he bristles at her dubious tone. He doubles down on his machismo even as he worries he shouldn’t have opted for the XL size and should have instead stuck with the ‘humanoid normal’ selection.

Rhea takes the lie gracefully. “Got it. Were you also green? Because this looks like the wrong color too.”

“You can change the color.”

“Really?”

“There’s a button. It’s the . . . uh . . . multi species model.”

“Oh, right.” She begins pressing the button and the gift takes on a rainbow series of hues. “Green . . . purple . . . blue . . . I guess that’s for the Twi’lek customers.”

“Green could be Falleen. Blue could be Chiss.”

“Neither are you. Pink . . . hmm . . .“

“No, not pink.” Definitely not pink.

“Red, right?”

“Red.” Of course, red. What is she thinking??

“There’s no red. There’s a pink, a brown, and a maroon.” Rhea displays the colors in succession for his benefit.

He shifts his stance uncomfortably and gripes, “Does the color matter?”

“Uh . . . I guess not. Maybe it needs some tattoos. You know, so it looks like it belongs to you.”

He cringes at the thought of tattooing that particular spot. “No. No tattoos. Not there.”

“Oh. Right.” Rhea is still staring at it, trying to decide what she thinks. She casually—too casually—wonders aloud, “So . . . you . . . uh . . . wear this?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It straps on.”

“Okay,” she gulps. 

“We don’t have to—“

“Let’s try it.” He catches her eyes questioningly and she blurts out gamely again, “Let’s try it. I think I like the maroon best. Yes, definitely maroon.” She pokes at the button to select the color and then abruptly shrieks and drops it yet again.

Maul can’t help it. He winces. 

“It’s buzzing!” she explains fast. “I mean, what the—“

“You can make it vibrate.”

“Why ever would you want that? A real one doesn’t vibrate. Er . . . does it?“

Maul face palms. “How long did you work in that brothel?” 

“Years. But er . . . all the equipment was organic . . . so to speak. I never saw a buzzing droid dildo around. The sex toys were handcuffs and gags and stuff.”

“I love a blindfold,” he sighs, feeling foolish.

“I know.” She smiles at him a little too brightly as she picks up the fallen faux phallus. “Tell you what—I’ll wear the blindfold and you wear this. But . . . uh . . . uh . . . “

“Yes?” he yelps.

“Please be g-gentle . . .”

He immediately volunteers, “I bought the smaller size too.”

Instantly, she looks relieved. “You mean the non-rancor size?” she teases.

He just shrugs. “Will you wear the slave collar?” he asks hopefully. Because he won’t feel quite so silly if she’s playacting a bit too.

Force bless the woman, because she lowers her eyes and says, “As you wish, Master.” It’s just what he needs to hear. 

Their new bedroom antics aren’t life changing, but they add some variety. Will it be enough to keep his little one from seeking consortium elsewhere? He hopes so. Rhea, of course, knows of his insecurity. It’s near impossible to keep his performance anxiety a secret when their minds are joined during sex. He knows her thoughts and, even without the Force, she inevitably senses his mind a bit too.

Only once does the actual topic come up. They are in each other’s arms in bed when she dabs at some seepage with the sheet. Rhea is always kind about the grosser aspects of his health condition, but he’s still embarrassed. He sits up abruptly and turns away. This humiliation is everything he hates about living the way he does.

She reaches out. “Hey—it’s no big deal—“

“It is.” He cruelly shrugs her off. “Don’t pretend it’s not.”

“You know I don’t mind.”

“You should mind,” he snarls, feeling full of self-loathing and self-pity in the moment. “I don’t know why you stay with me . . . “

“You’d never let me go.”

“That’s true.”

“But I’d never leave you anyway. So . . . I guess we’re stuck with each other,” Rhea reasons. 

“You deserve better.”

“There is no one better,” she answers. 

He snorts and rants. “I’m only half a man! A whole man—any whole man—would be an improvement.” A whole man certainly wouldn’t leak feces from time to time like he does.

“What do I have to say to get you to believe me?” she sighs. She tugs at him from behind. “Maul, look at me.”

He glances back and scowls. 

“You’re more than enough for me. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She means that declaration. Sincerity is written across her face and truth resonates in the Force. But Maul thinks it more a statement of how wretched her life was before him than commentary on their relationship. But it helps when she adds, “If you even look at another girl, Sith or no Sith, I’m going to kill you.”

Rhea has a jealous streak and he loves it. It’s feels good to be wanted. He relents to smile a little now as he tells her, “If I am ever foolish enough to look at another girl, you should kill me. For being stupid.”

On the Dark Side, passion is inextricably linked to pain, even if it’s just threats. But now that the violence has been alluded to, it’s time to move on to the devotion. “Maul, I love you,” Rhea whispers.

“I love you, too,” he nods back. 

“I’ll go get a towel,” she volunteers as she gets up from bed. She returns to kneel naked before his exposed, ruined body to dab at the drips. Watching her in silence, all he can think is that this woman is one in a billion.

Two weeks later, a strange ship appears requesting to land at the compound and to speak with him personally. It turns out to be the Fulcrum operative Cassian Andor who has smuggled the Jedi Master who healed Rhea out of Mirial two steps ahead of Imperial agents. The Jedi has fled to Dathomir to accept the offer of help to get him to sanctuary.

“Vader’s onto him,” Andor succinctly summarizes the situation as they confer on the compound landing pad.

“Were you followed?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is the cell compromised?”

“It might be. For certain, the Empire will be alert to suspicious activity now that they know there was a local Jedi,” Andor answers.

One glance at the undercover Force doctor bears testament to a fight. Master Timmons looks bruised and battered. “Inquisitor?” Maul guesses.

“Two,” the Jedi Master answers.

“Dead?”

“I presume so.” Master Timmons looks troubled as he quickly adds, “It was self-defense.”

Maul shrugs. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.” 

He turns back to his rebel conspirator. “Alright, Andor, I’ll take it from here. It’s best you don’t know what happens next. Go do some damage control and report this to Draven.” 

The young rebel agent takes the dismissal and re-boards his ship as Maul invites Master Timmons inside the compound. They head first for Rhea’s conference room office. She makes the call to Senator Organa on Alderaan and a plan is arranged. It’s a repeat of the handoff they did for the Jedi woman Marlo the Hutt gave him last year. 

“Go get dressed to visit a palace,” Maul tells Rhea. “You need to look convincing in case this doesn’t happen on the landing pad as planned. I can’t be seen publicly anywhere near Organa.”

“Yes, Sir.” 

While Rhea disappears to change out of her everyday housemaid dress, Maul looks the fugitive over. Timmons looks rough and his clothes are torn. He’s sure to attract attention and that’s the last thing Maul wants. “Can you heal yourself?”

“Of course.”

Maul watches with fascination as the Jedi Master works his Light Side magic on himself. It’s just as amazing as when he helped Rhea. 

“I’ll never get tired of watching that,” Maul grunts afterwards. “That’s a very good trick.”

“I hope I’m doing the right thing,” the Jedi Master confesses doubt. He was the victor against two Inquisitors, but the man looks very defeated right now.

“Hanging around to become a martyr is always a bad idea,” Maul counsels dryly. 

“I’m hoping that when some time has passed, I can re-emerge.”

“Perhaps.” Or maybe, if this rebellion succeeds, the Purge will be over because Jedi-loving Darth Plagueis will be back in power and Master Timmons will be able to Force heal out in the open. “In the meantime, pass on what you have learned. There’s a lot of half trained adult Padawans where you’re going.” Maul marvels again at the Jedi’s skill. He came in bruised and bloody, and now there is not a mark on him. “That’s a good trick,” Maul compliments him again.

“It’s not all the Light can do,” the Jedi says pointedly.

Rhea now arrives back dressed formally for a royal visit. She helps Mrs. Nettles scrounge up a change of clothes for the Jedi. The doctor’s torn and dirty hospital scrubs are replaced with a nondescript tunic and pants that are a reasonably good fit. The jacket he wears atop these clothes has a Crimson Dawn logo on the arm, but that can’t be helped. They go with it as is. It matters less that the Jedi appears to be a gang member than that he no longer looks like the wanted fugitive doctor all Imperial commands are now actively seeking.

Continuing with that tactic, Maul opts to take Rhea’s new ship to Alderaan in lieu of a larger transport. They leave immediately per the Senator’s instructions. They come alone—just their trio.

He gets back to business once they are en route, working the whole flight to Alderaan. Rhea does the same. The Jedi passes the time in deep meditation.

“Done praying for guidance?” Maul smirks when Master Timmons finds them in the cockpit just as they enter the Alderaan system.

“No,” the Jedi answers. “I was praying for you, Maul.”

Before he can come up with a suitable comeback for that comment, the escort ships Bail Organa has promised hail their transport to form up a convoy. Maul busies himself with piloting the descent and the landing process. 

Everything proceeds smoothly according to plan. They touch down on the private palace landing platform, just like before. They follow instructions to disembark and to wait. So far, so good, but Maul keeps his senses on alert. And that’s how he detects an unseen presence.

“Maul, what is it?” Rhea tugs at his sleeve. She must sense his growing unease.

“There’s a Jedi here.”

“Yes,” she nods and gestures to their companion. “Master Timmons.”

“No,” he breathes out. “It’s someone else. But a Jedi Master for sure.” He senses power. Great power. Somewhere close and getting closer.

“How can you tell?” Rhea frets.

“They feel enormous in the Force.” 

He thought he sensed someone last time he was here. Now, he is certain of it. There is a Jedi Master on Alderaan. A Jedi with blinding Light that blazes forth with no effort at concealment. It’s almost brazen.

“I feel it too,” Master Timmons speaks up in that unnervingly calm way of his.

“Where is Organa? What’s taking so long?” Maul is discontent and he’s not sure why. It’s not the unseen Jedi Master. At least, he doesn’t think so. This danger is something else. The Force is jumpy. Almost nervous. It’s got him rattled.

“Here he comes.” Rhea spots the Senator striding fast out of the palace. She turns to Timmons to say goodbye. “Good luck,” Rhea bids the Jedi Master. “I will never forget what you did for me. Maul and I hope that in some small way this will repay your kindness.”

“He doesn’t believe in luck,” Maul complains. “You know that.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, all the same,” Timmons intones with all due gravitas. 

“We will welcome you back into the rebellion at any time,” Rhea promises. “We could use someone of your expertise to supervise the infirmary at Yavin.”

The Jedi is noncommittal. “Thank you. I will consider it.”

“Lay off, Rhea,” Maul inserts himself again. “I’m sure Bail will give him the hard sell on the long flight they have ahead of them.”

As if on cue, up walks a slightly breathless Bail Organa to greet them. “Maul. Rhea.”

He makes the introductions. “This is Sonic Timmons, Jedi Master.”

“Senator,” the Jedi responds, “it is an honor.”

“Master Timmons? You’re the healer who helped Rhea?”

“Yes.”

“Talk inside, Bail,” Maul rasps sharply as he scans the horizon for peeking eyes. “This is too public.” He feels uncomfortably exposed standing out in the open on the mostly empty landing platform. Anyone could see them here. This is a prime target for a sniper or an ambush.

“We are safe, this is my home,” the Senator brushes off the concern. “All are loyal to me here.”

Maul is having none of it. “Get him on a ship and get him out of here. He’s a wanted fugitive and an enemy of the state. I cannot assure that we weren’t followed.”

“We’ve all done this before, Maul. It will be fine.” 

But he is worried. The fact that they have done this before means there is a pattern of behavior to observe. It makes them predictable. Maul is mindful now of his Jedi hunters’ on-again, off-again speculation that they have been followed. More than once an Inquisitor has appeared out of nowhere without explanation to kill a Jedi his men have been stalking. Moreover, Bail Organa is a man who once kept a colony of Jedi on his homeworld until the Empire showed up to ruin the fun. He’s a known sympathizer to the victims of Vader’s Purge. 

His trepidation must make an impression because Organa takes the hint. “Right this way, Master Timmons.” He gestures to the _Tantive IV_ cruiser that is the only other spacecraft parked on the landing platform. “My ship is prepped and ready. We just need one more passenger. Ah, here she comes.” The Senator beckons to a young girl in a fancy dress and flying hair braids who runs across the landing pad to his side. “Meet my daughter, our Crown Princess, Leia Organa,” Bail Organa says proudly as the little girl collects herself to nod regally with poise beyond her years. “She will accompany us.”

Maul doesn’t respond to the introduction. He just stares hard at the Senator’s daughter. He’s taken aback at her feel in the Force. Suddenly, the invisible energy field that binds the universe together is nearly screaming in his ears. It’s deeply unsettling and it gets his adrenaline pumping. Looking from father to daughter as the Force buffets his mind, Maul decides that this moment raises far more questions than it answers. 

“Hello, your . . . uh . . . Highness?” Rhea’s voice ends up like a question, indicating she’s uncertain of the protocol for how to meet the Crown Princess.

But he cares not for the niceties of court titles. Maul turns to Bail Organa to hiss, “You need to leave. Now.” Especially now.

The Jedi Master quietly seconds this suggestion. “I think he’s right.”

Maul whirls. “You feel it too?”

The Jedi nods. 

The young princess apparently agrees. She turns to her father. “Dad, maybe we should go.”

“Get into hyperspace,” Maul orders gruffly as his eyes keep wandering involuntarily to the very young, very intriguing Crown Princess. Does she even know about her power? He wonders. 

“We’re going, we’re going,” The Senator agrees even as he downplays things. “We’re flying a consular ship, broadcasting a diplomatic mission. The Empire cannot legally stop or search us.”

“Tell that to Vader,” Maul snaps back. “It won’t go over well.”

“It’s the law,” the Senator points out. 

“Are you willing to stake your life on that?” Maul retorts. The Senator’s faith in the rule of law annoys him. Bail Organa of all people understands how much contempt Emperor Palpatine has for the galactic legislature. But just to underscore the point, he spells it out for everyone. 

“He’s a Sith! Vader can take whatever he wants and do whatever he wants. Remember that. You might be a Senator married to a Queen, but there are no rules on the Dark Side. No limits! Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turns to Rhea now to rasp, “Let’s go.”

“Maul—“ It’s Master Timmons speaking up. “May the Force be with you.”

He nods and replies tersely with the customary response, “And also with you.” Then he nabs Rhea’s hand and drags her fast back up the ramp of the ship they just exited.

“What’s wrong?” she mutters as she struggles to keep pace with his strides. 

“I’m not sure. But I have a bad feeling about this . . . and it’s getting worse.” His gut tells him something is wrong, even if his senses can’t pinpoint any immediate danger. But the Force is fairly crackling with anticipation of something. 

“Is it a trap?” she worries.

“I don’t know. But now, I understand why Organa helps the Jedi.”

“Why?” she asks as they nearly run for the cockpit.

“His little daughter has the Force.”

“Oh. Wow. Really?” Rhea stops short in surprise and glances out the nearest window to where the Senator and his daughter walk with the Jedi towards the _Tantive IV_.

“Come on,” Maul swipes at her to pull her forward again. “If Vader finds that little princess, he’ll kill her. Bail will have to bring her to Plagueis’ safe haven if he wants his daughter to live.”

“But why?”

“She’s a threat.”

“She’s ten. Maybe even younger.”

“I was about her age when Father stole me.”

“Why didn’t he kill you?” Rhea asks the obvious question.

“Because he wanted to use me.” 

Maul himself now hazards a glance out a window at the retreating figure of the little princess. If Father finds her and doesn’t kill her, could she become his latest replacement? The Lords of the Sith are traditionally men, but times change and perhaps it is time for a female Apprentice. It’s a glum thought. It makes him especially terse as they enter the cockpit. “Strap in. We’re leaving.”

He plops down, guns the engines, punches the repulsolifts, and breaks gravity immediately.

Rhea staggers on her feet as the ship lurches aloft. “Whoa—Maul—“

“I said strap yourself in!” he snarls. He’s getting them out of here before that nagging tickle in the back of his mind signaling danger comes to fruition.

Rhea immediately complies as he starts climbing high into the sky above the palace complex. Behind him, he sees the _Tantive IV_ do the same. But the Senator’s ship naturally gets priority. For this time, there are no escort ships from the Royal Guard to part the sea of traffic for them. It means their ship is quickly swallowed up by the mass of intraplanetary congestion.

“The traffic on this planet is as bad as Coruscant,” he grumbles. But maybe it’s not all bad to get lost amid these everyday transports to confuse any observant eyes. Still, the best strategy is to get to lightspeed where the Empire can’t track them. And so, figuring he can get a pardon from Bail Organa if he’s tagged by the local cops, Maul starts weaving recklessly through the mass of ships, jumping the line to the outermost orbital layer reserved for hyperspace jumps. 

He doesn’t normally fly this dangerously nor does he routinely flout local law enforcement. Crimson Dawn does not seek to draw attention as a general matter. But this is different. 

“Almost there . . . “ he speaks his thoughts aloud. He busies himself with the navicomputer a moment, deciding not to select any of the preprogrammed jumps to Dathomir, Yavin, or Lothal. Just to be safe, he’s going to make an intermediate jump to another Core system first.

But Rhea’s yelp gets his attention. “Look out!”

He glances up just in time to correct his course before he plows into the starboard shields of an Imperial star destroyer that is emerging from hyperspace.

That wasn’t there a second ago. Maul’s heart skips a beat.

Rhea shrieks with alarm as immediately he disengages from the navicomputer and grabs the controls. A dozen TIE fighters spew out from the gigantic capital ship just as up ahead, the priority status _Tantive IV_ disappears into the safety of hyperspace. The rebel Senator, his Force-strong daughter, and the fugitive Jedi Master are safely away. That just leaves him and Rhea as the only conspirators left to capture. 

This is not good. Maul swallows hard at the turn of events. Then, he springs into action. He puts the ship into a near vertical dive and starts evasive actions. The TIEs that swarm behind him aren’t shooting, but they give chase very effectively.

Beside him, Rhea looks petrified. “We’re dead,” she breathes out.

Not if he can help it. “That was an old trick, and a good one. They waited until we were aloft so they wouldn't be seen storming the palace with all the political drama it would cause. They waited for the right moment to emerge to ambush us with their fighters poised to launch.” It’s a classic Clone Wars Jedi General Anakin Skywalker tactic, Maul recognizes.

“There’s more coming!” Rhea wails as she points. 

Sure enough, more fighters emerge from the belly of the beast star destroyer. Maul knows they are going to try to cut him off. He’s being herded to be captured. 

“We’re dead,” Rhea whispers again, sounding like she’s trying hard to accept their fate. 

“No,” he answers bluntly. “If they wanted us dead, they would be shooting. He wants us alive.”

“He? Who??”

“That’s Vader’s ship.” That’s the super star destroyer _Executor_ , the only one of its kind in the entire Imperial fleet. It’s a ridiculously large eyesore that perfectly befits the current Apprentice who lacks both discretion and finesse.

“I know all about the rebels,” Rhea groans. “He’ll torture it out of me . . .”

Maul shakes his head. He won’t let that happen. He’ll give Rhea a quick, clean death if he has to. He won’t let that brute Vader vent his Dark savagery on her. But hopefully, it won’t come to that.

“I always knew this was a risk . . . “ ashen faced Rhea says quietly. She’s talking through her fears to process them. “I knew one day it might come to this . . . I just didn’t think it would happen today . . .“

She sounds resigned as he yet again sends their ship on a twirling, zig-zagging path to evade capture. Next comes another stomach-churning dive in the not-quite weightlessness of Alderaan’s upper atmosphere. He’s methodically racing away from the big ship bearing down on them to keep out of range of its strangely silent turbo lasers and its no doubt powerful tractor beam. 

“We may have to ditch and hide,” Maul decides grimly after yet another ineffective series of aerial gymnastics. No matter what maneuvers he tries, he’s unsuccessful at making any headway getting around the _Executor_. Without getting past Vader’s ship, he can’t safely make the jump to lightspeed. As it stands, it’s nothing short of a miracle that they haven’t been caught already. If he weren’t an experienced pilot with Force-attuned reflexes, this chase would have been over minutes ago.

Since Plan A is a bust, it’s time to improvise Plan B. “I can fly for the palace and hope the political stakes will deter them from following. Bail’s people might hide us.”

“You’ll implicate them all,” Rhea states the obvious. 

“Organa’s already busted. This ambush is proof,” Maul counters. And whew, that was close. That wide, banking turn almost slammed them into the side of another civilian ship that thankfully took immediate evasive action.

“Can’t we hide on the surface and sneak into the palace?” Rhea suggests frantically. She sounds like she’s in tears but Maul doesn’t dare take his eyes off the controls to see for himself.

He shakes his head. “They’ll be on us as soon as we land. That’s when the shooting will start. We need to land someplace they can’t follow.”

“You said yourself that Vader will do anything. Maul, landing at the palace won’t stop them!”

She’s right. As always, his undereducated, but very intelligent girl has good instincts and pragmatic insight. She’s been to the school of hard knocks and has plenty of street smarts. And yet, gang life hasn’t stolen her innate goodness. It’s that mix of Light and can-do pragmatism, tempered by her vulnerability, that hooked him from the outset. 

Suddenly, Rhea shrieks, “They’re shooting!” 

It’s a warning shot, but it just upped the ante. Now, Maul has laser fire to dodge as well as over a dozen ships working in concert against him. He had been using the civilian traffic as a buffer to shield himself, but now the large queue of transports waiting their turn to jump to hyperspace has scattered. Everyone has fled from the scene of this desperate chase. 

“Can’t you shoot back?” Rhea urges. 

So far, he has disdained that escalation. Taking out a few TIEs only benefits him if it gets him a clear route to make his jump. Moreover, he suspects Vader has no shortage of TIEs to continually launch against him. But since they’re shooting now, he’ll shoot too. 

As he fears, at the first volley of return laser fire, the big _Executor_ opens up its battery of cannons. Now, he’s dodging a dozen firing TIEs plus the looming, heavily armed capital ship. It tips the strategic balance immediately. Maul is outmanned and outgunned when he strays too close to the _Executor_ in a near vertical climb to outrun a proton torpedo. 

The torpedo whizzes past their craft harmlessly. But their ship stalls, and the sudden gravitational pull yanks him and Rhea hard against their seat restraints.

“We’re hit!” Rhea screeches as he grunts.

“No. We’re caught.” Swearing, sweating Maul gulps at the realization. 

“Caught??” Rhea turns terrified eyes on him.

“That’s the tractor beam you feel. It’s pulling us in. I’m at full power—I have to shut down.” Maul immediately starts salvaging the ship on the off chance he can kill Vader and make a run for it with Rhea. He’ll need all the speed and firepower he can get in that instance. He can’t risk melting the engines in a futile attempt to resist.

“Caught??” Rhea echoes weakly as she watches the flurry of TIEs immediately disengage. It’s very visible proof that the chase has ended. They are the losers.

There is a long moment of silence between them as their ship is towed into the nearest _Executor_ hangar bay. Up close, the oversized star destroyer is an intimidating sight. Rhea pants hard beside him as she attempts to master her fright. She’s always been a tremulous little thing, and her newfound confidence now evaporates in the face of their predicament.

“He’s not going to get me without a fight,” Maul promises her. She’s his lady and he will fight for them both. His fate will be the same as hers, and vice versa.

Rhea looks at him blankly and nods out of habit. It’s a pretense of optimism. For all hope is lost from his girl so full of Light. Fear consumes her and it radiates out in the Force. It teases him to panic as well. Fear is contagious that way. 

“But it’s V-Vader . . . “ she stammers.

“Kenobi beat him,” he reminds them both. It’s a bit of a self pep talk, actually.

“This isn’t how it is supposed t-to h-happen . . . The war hasn’t e-even b-begun . . .” Rhea laments.

She’s right. The timing is all wrong. It’s too soon. This confrontation is supposed to be the culmination, not the beginning. He’s supposed to meet Vader as an equal on the battlefield, not as a captured prisoner. They should be rivals in an ongoing civil war, with him as the upstart hero change agent and Vader as the incarnate bastion of the status quo. But he’s not a declared rebel and there is no overt insurrection. He’s just a gangster who returned a favor to a Jedi Master and got caught red-handed. 

Is this really happening now?? It is. Maul fights the urge to despair. Destiny, it seems, has very bad timing where he is concerned.

Their ship enters a cavernous docking bay that is devoid of ships but full of stormtroopers. At the forefront of this show of force is their leader, Darth Vader. He’s his usual subtle self, Maul sniffs. The guy’s not even bothering to cloak his considerable Force imprint. Hiding in the Force is the first lesson of being a Sith but apparently the Jedi Chosen One thinks he’s too good for it. That rankles. Well, everything about the current Apprentice rubs Maul the wrong way. 

With a quick prayer to his Dark patron saint, the disruptor Lord Bane, and a muttered charm for cunning in combat that is a time honored Nightbrother tradition, Maul unbuckles his seat restraints. He stands to unholster the weapon at his waist. The sword hilt feels good in his grip. It yields a rush of much needed confidence. 

He can do this. He has to do this. Time to step up and prove that the first Apprentice is the best Apprentice.

“Stay in the ship,” he orders Rhea before he heads to deploy the ramp.


	28. chapter 28

Maul walks slowly down the ramp with the hilt of his saberstaff firmly in hand. He comes to a halt several meters from the bottom. There he stands his ground, weapon showing but not lit, as he surveys Vader’s welcome. 

Of all the ways he has imagined this long-aggrieved confrontation occurring, it was never like this. He looks around at the hundred-odd infantrymen standing in neat formation surrounding him and his ship. All have their weapons drawn and aimed. The first two rows of stormtroopers in each phalanx have taken a knee so that friendly fire from over their shoulders will not harm them. Clearly, these troops are not here for show. Vader is signaling that he means business. 

Maul curls his lip. This is a cowardly way to commence a duel. 

“Maul.” Darth Vader’s voice is the same disembodied baritone from the holonet. It’s loud and it carries.

Maul stares intently at his captor for a long moment before he responds. It’s best to let the tension rise, he has learned from his many confrontations in the galactic Underworld. He’s not the impetuous, trigger happy Apprentice he once was—the young man who couldn’t wait to start a fight on Naboo. He’s older and wiser now, a man tempered by experience and matured by defeat. He doesn’t start fights he cannot finish any longer. He walks away from provocation more often these days than he engages. Today might be the fight he wants, but it’s not a setting he can win in. And so, Maul treads carefully.

But that doesn’t make him conciliatory. Looking directly into the opaque red eyes of Vader’s mask, Maul returns the greeting. “Skywalker.”

The jeer has the desired effect. His foe is at once defensive and angry. Vader lectures him, “That name no longer has any meaning for me.” They both know the boast for the lie it is. Maul just scored the first hit. 

He shrugs casually as he continues to needle. “Once a Jedi, always a Jedi.”

“Tell that to Lord Tyrannus.” 

The towering caped figure marches forward now. That inscrutable helmet mask looks him over before Vader hurls his own diss. It’s sort of puerile, but no one would mistake Vader for a sophisticated raconteur. He’s more the peevish type, as the whole galaxy knows. 

“You’re shorter than I expected.”

Vader’s legs are nearly as mechanical as his own. Height is a choice at this point in both of their lives. But to spare them each any reference to their infirmity, Maul replies, “Size matters not when your ally is the Force.” Father’s not even up to this poseur’s shoulder and his power is immense.

His senses are alert, as no doubt Vader’s are as well. But Vader doesn’t cloak his Force imprint, so his emotions are easily detected. This guy has no Jedi calm, that’s for certain. But he seems almost nervous. Is that excitement for the fight to come? Or something else altogether? Maul can’t be certain. But the Force fairly crackles with excitement at the long overdue meeting of Lord Maul and Lord Vader. They must be causing quite a disturbance for Father and Plagueis to puzzle over. 

He represses the urge to turn when, hands on hips, the Jedi pretender begins to slowly circle him. It’s the classic posture of a predator who has cornered his prey and wants to toy with him. Vader’s heavy cape sweeps behind him majestically and Maul can’t help but feel a little reminded of the zombie Muun’s gravitas. But Darth Vader is no Darth Plagueis, he reminds himself.

“I suppose you carry that big sword because you’re so small.”

Again with the size insults? Maul cocks his head. “Is that a challenge? Would you like to see my blades?”

“I arrest criminals, I don’t fight them.” 

Watching his gloating captor, Maul wonders if Vader will fight like his old Jedi Master Kenobi. How fast can he move in that suit? He seems agile enough. Maul wishes he knew what he will be dealing with when the guy finally lights his sword and they get down to business. 

Meanwhile Vader keeps circling. The only sounds in the room are his heavy footsteps and menacing mechanical respiration. It’s Sith posturing at its most effective. He’s in complete control of the situation and they both know it. 

“So we meet at last,” Vader intones, still pacing. “I was wondering when this was going to happen.”

“You made this happen. Why am I here?” Maul demands.

Vader replies with a slow laundry list of charges. “Money laundering . . . prostitution . . . narcotics . . . illegal gambling . . . ”

“So you’re a cop now?”

“You and your kind are a menace!” Vader hisses back. He’s Mr. Law and Order of the Empire and something of a public scold and prude about vice. It’s ironically very Jedi-like.

Maul grunts. “You take out Crimson Dawn and you only succeed in emboldening the Hutts and the Pikes. You don’t actually stamp out crime. It will persist. Like Darkness persists.” He demands again, “Why am I here?”

Vader adds to his list of indictments: “Conspiracy to aid and abet an enemy of the state.” The big, angular mask swings his way as his foe observes wryly, “You are not who I expected to find smuggling Jedi.”

“Really?” Maul counters coolly, raising an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe because I think you’ve been watching all along.” When Vader makes no reply, Maul continues. “There is a certain irony to it, is there not?” He shrugs. This bickering about crime and the Jedi isn’t the real conflict of this confrontation. It’s just the preamble. But he’ll play along. “I owed that doctor a favor.”

“And the woman given to you by the Hutt? Did she owe you a favor as well?”

“It was best to be rid of her. A Jedi woman wasn’t going to be a good fit in any of my brothels. There’s not a big draw for that sort of thing among my clientele.”

“Don’t be coy,” Vader snarls with a flash of temper. Evidently, he’s not used to anyone talking back to him. The Apprentice doesn’t joust with the Hutts and the Pikes in the ordinary course of business like he does. Suddenly, Maul realizes that he might have the better training for this war of words. Because he’s used to being the underdog with his back against the wall like he is now, whereas Vader simply expects to get his way and usually does. How long has it been, Maul wonders, since Darth Vader confronted an enemy he could not intimidate or overpower? Maybe Kenobi, he speculates.

“I know you search for Jedi,” his captor accuses. “You’ve been doing it for years. When my Inquisitors get bored, they tail your agents. You lead us right to them.”

“What do you care if I do your dirty work for you?” Maul challenges.

“Why do you do it?” is Vader’s rejoinder. “You used to kill them. That was acceptable. But more recently, you have been turning them loose. And here lately, you have been delivering them to Senator Organa. Why?”

Is this a mystery? “One of these days, one of them is going to know where Kenobi hides.”

“Kenobi is mine to kill,” Vader fairly growls.

Hell, no. That privilege is his. Vader will have to get in line. Maul counters coldly, “I believe I have the prior claim, Jedi.”

Vader stops short in his circular march. “Call me that again and I’ll kill you,” he warns.

Maul smirks. “You’re not just any Jedi. You’re THE Jedi. The Chosen One.”

Vader whirls to wag a gloved finger at him. “That folklore has been proven wrong by my very existence as a Sith.”

“No. That folklore is why you are a Sith.” Maul again looks up into the red eyes of the mask. There are yellow eyes under there somewhere, he’s certain. For the crosscurrents of defensiveness, insecurity, and physical pain he’s picking up from Vader are strong hallmarks of Darkness. They are also strikingly familiar. It’s sort of galling. Like he’s looking at a different, lesser version of himself.

“Our Master knew that prophecy. He feared that prophecy. He was not about to be the Sith who allowed our tradition to be snuffed out by a Jedi. And so, he plotted to make his enemy an ally. To make you an instrument of his will rather than his undoing.” Maul now hotly sneers, “He’s using you!”

“Jealous?”

Maul gulps. That gibe hits home. Vader is plenty perceptive, it seems. 

So, he eschews the reflexive denial that comes to his lips and owns his narrative. “You are a convenient henchman to do his dirty work so he can keep his public image clean. But when the Empire is fully established—"

“It is established.”

“—he will be done with you. That’s when I step back in.”

“You’re a criminal, not a leader.”

“Whereas you’re the most hated man in the galaxy,” Maul retorts. “That makes you an easy fall guy to sacrifice to gain public goodwill. Trust me, no one will mourn your loss. You’re a transitional figure at best. Here to play your role to move things along and then disappear back into the Force. You’re a change agent, for certain. Maybe a footnote to history. But not a statesman. Not a man of vision.”

“Those are bold words for a man who’s surrounded,” Vader rumbles.

It’s true that at least a hundred pairs of eyes watch their confrontation. Most of the bystanders can probably hear them, as well. Vader’s got that booming amplified baritone that reminds him of Plagueis’ stentorian tones. The guy doesn’t speak so much as he broadcasts. The voice, like the rest of Lord Vader, is theatrical.

But hasn’t this gone on long enough? It’s customary to exchange insults when two combatants meet. Trash talk is part of the lead up to the conflict. But at this point, it’s past time to get down to the swordplay or to disengage. They either fight or they don’t fight. So . . . which is it?

“Is all this necessary?” Maul gestures dismissively to the troops.

“Yes.”

“It is traditional for a duel to be conducted without reinforcements.”

Vader sniffs, “You are mistaken if you think I will stoop to fight you.” His words drip with contempt.

Bitter Maul bristles despite attempts to the contrary. His thumb is itching to activate his blades. But he resists. Instead, he ponders aloud, “So these men are here to protect you? Is that it? Do they help you feel safe?”

“You light that sword and they will shoot you,” Vader promises. “You can’t deflect all of their shots.”

“Then I’ll ask again—why am I here?” He doesn’t believe for one second that Father has sent Vader to arrest him. So if Vader’s not planning to kill him, then what is this about?

Vader begins to advance on him when they are interrupted. 

“N-Nooooo! Stop! Stop!”

It’s Rhea. She comes flying down the ramp behind him. Her graceful day gown is a swirl of dark purple silk as her lekku stream out in her wake. 

Maul intercepts her bodily immediately.

“Don’t f-fight him! Please don’t fight him!” She puts a trembling, restraining hand on his sword hilt. “Maul, d-dont! Please don’t!”

He grabs her wrist, shakes her hard, and growls, “Get in the ship!”

“Please just surrender!”

Stung, he thrusts her back hard. “Get in the ship! That’s an order!”

Ugh—this is a power bleed if there ever was one. Things are really veering off script. First, Vader disdains a fight and then his girlfriend intervenes to urge him to surrender. It’s humiliating and it’s causing him to lose focus. In this setting, that is very dangerous.

“But Maul—“

“Do not interfere!”

“This is my fault—“

“DO NOT INTERFERE!” The words come out in an uncharacteristic bellow. He’s not a man who loses his cool often, but this situation merits some volume.

Frantic, near-hysterical Rhea glances over at Darth Vader who observes them both. On impulse, she dives to her knees at his rival’s feet. And now, Maul’s mortification deepens. For Rhea clasps her hands as she kneels to beg for his life before his mortal enemy. 

“He did it for me—to heal me—that Jedi was a healer and he h-helped me when no one else could—“

“RHEA!“

“That Jedi worked a m-miracle—have mercy, for the Force willed it!” she wails. “Maul helped him escape to repay him for healing me! So arrest me! Me! Let him go—I am responsible--“

He’s heard enough. Maul waves a hand and freezes her in the Force. She is completely immobile, her eyes wide with terror at the sudden paralysis.

“Who is this?” Vader demands as he peers down at her upturned face.

Maul ignores the question as he stows his weapon at his waist, unfreezes Rhea, and immediately hauls her to her feet. Before she can react, he waves his hand again to steal her consciousness. Instantly, she slumps into Force sleep. Maul catches her, sweeping her up high into his arms. She is a ragdoll in expensive couture, her legs, arms, and lekku dangling and her face slack and tipped back. She’s completely helpless as he turns on heel to stride back up the ramp to stow her just inside the ship. 

“Who is that?” Vader demands as Maul reappears. 

“No one,” he lies unconvincingly. 

Lord Vader is undeterred. “I knew you had sunk low, but I didn’t think it was bad enough for others to plead to die for you. Who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“So you won’t mind if I order my men to fire on the ship?” Vader goads. “I’ll ask you again for the last time: who is she?”

He makes a strategic call in the moment. “She’s Lady Maul,” he promotes Rhea to spouse since he was willing to marry her. It’s a ploy to gain her some status and respect in the Sith hierarchy. “Doctor Timmons healed her. She was rather badly disfigured.”

Now, Vader is interested. Very interested. “Disfigured from you?” he probes with lurid curiosity.

“From a battle droid. She took a shot to the face in the war.”

“So, all along your hunting Jedi was about more than finding Kenobi?” Vader surmises.

Not precisely, but Maul is vague. “Healers are useful,” is all he will say in response. Scowling hard, he now grinds out, “The actions and decisions today were all mine. Lady Maul is not responsible, despite her words to the contrary.”

“You cannot protect her. That was as good as a confession.”

“She is young and can be impetuous. She will do and say anything for me.”

“She is loyal.” Oddly, Vader sounds like he approves.

Maul sighs and nods. “She is loyal. Too loyal today.”

The Apprentice doesn’t seem to have a comeback for that comment. 

Where were they? Oh, yes, the troopers. Maul gestures to them once more. “What is the point of all this leverage?” He asks yet again, “What do you want?”

“Information.”

Finally, they’re getting somewhere. He’s about to be asked to throw someone under the transport. Well, naturally. Because the Sith deal in betrayals.

Maul now looks to that blank, black stare expectantly. The mask might intimidate others, but he recognizes it for the crutch that it is. All that apparatus hides an infirmity, like the pair of shiny boots he himself put on to see Alderaan’s Senator. Weakness is shameful on the Dark Side. 

So what is the information that got him captured? When Vader next speaks, he’s not fishing for details about the Underworld or the rebellion or even Bail Organa’s Jedi smuggling ring that is the pretext for this interview. Instead, Vader asks about the past. About the Force. About Dathomir.

“Your people . . . the witches. They raised the dead for an army against Dooku.”

That’s what this is about? Maul tries to conceal his shock and relief. “Yes,” he nods, wondering where this is going. 

“How? How did they do it?”

Maul explains, “It was a tradition to bury our dead in tomb trees. Those who have gone home to the Force have their bodies preserved inside cocoons we hung in sacred trees deep in the forest. Their bodies remained intact waiting for the chance to be reunited with their former souls should the Force permit it. It is a resurrection ritual only performed in the most dire circumstances . . . when there is no other hope of success against an aggressor.”

“And yet it failed with Dooku.”

Maul grimly concedes, “My people were slaughtered. The Force granted the dead life, but it did not grant them victory.”

“How is it done? What is this ritual?”

He answers truthfully. “I never learned it. That magic was a closely guarded secret which only the Mother Witch and her closest elders knew. I was a child when I left the coven. They did not confide it in me.”

“So the knowledge is lost?”

“Yes,” he laments. “It is lost, along with the rest of the sorcery of the Nightsisters.”

Frustration and disappointment radiate out from Vader in the Force. It is pulsing and incessant as he growls out his displeasure. “That was a waste.” 

Thinking of the amazing talent of Sonic Timmons, Maul can’t stop himself from pointing out the hypocrisy of that opinion. “Exterminating the Jedi is a waste too. You are squandering the knowledge of the Light, like Dooku squandered the knowledge of my people.”

“You were killing Jedi when I was a child,” Vader snaps back. “Save me your sanctimony condemning the Purge.” Sounding almost discouraged now, his foe complains, “Is there nothing useful you can tell me about the undead Nightsisters?”

Maul thinks a moment, thrusting aside the pang of regret and sadness he always gets when he thinks of his lost people. It’s why he speaks of them so seldomly. “The army of the dead only lived so long as the spell was cast. When Grievous destroyed Old Daka, her spell was broken and the dead fell still and silent once more.”

“They weren’t really revived then,” Vader concludes glumly. 

Maul shoots his replacement a measuring look now. “What has spurred this interest? Is our Master still looking for secrets of immortality? Because raising the dead is not the same as immortality. Immortality is infinitely more elusive.”

When Vader makes no reply, he shrugs. “Death is the way of things. It is the way of the Force.”

“Don’t presume to lecture me,” Vader snaps. “Anything is possible in the Force.” Maul can almost picture the indignant sneer beneath the mask as the towering third Apprentice crows, “You underestimate my power.” Vader sounds all but ready to beat his chest to prove his worth.

Maul is sly now as he drawls, “Only one has the power to cheat death. He didn’t learn it from the Nightsisters. He never even met a Nightsister.”

“Plagueis?”

“Good guess,” Maul smirks.

“He’s dead.”

Maul chuckles. “So certain you sound. So foolish as well. Do you really believe that Darth Sidious mortally wounded the only Sith Master who cannot die?” Maul frowns as he asserts, “Plagueis has the ultimate power: time. Until our Master equals that feat, he is vulnerable. That means the Empire is vulnerable and you are vulnerable.” Maul drops his voice to emphasize his next words. “Be careful, for overconfidence is a weakness.”

But rather than pursue that point—the endgame of the powerplay between the two reigning Sith Masters--Vader sticks to his original topic of resurrection. “I don’t want immortality. I want to wake the dead. To permanently wake the dead.”

It’s a bizarre response. Because what dead person is more important than surviving the coming slaughter to decide the Rule of Two? But Maul won’t overplay his hand. As always, he plays it cool. He’s not obvious like the notoriously heavy-handed Darth Vader.

“Ask your Master,” Maul suggests almost casually. “He knows the resurrection ritual. Mother showed it to him long ago. Plagueis sent him to Dathomir for knowledge. He left with knowledge . . . and with me.”

“The ritual is Dark?”

Maul shakes his head no. “The witches were not Dark.”

“Ventress was Dark.”

“Asaj Ventress was raised outside the coven, like I was. She was trained a Sith assassin, not trained a Sister.”

“Meaning?”

“The witches did not recognize the distinction between Light and Dark. They worshipped the Force in all its permutations.”

“They were grey?”

“Perhaps,” Maul allows, “although they wouldn’t describe it that way. The Nightsisters revered life. Only in extreme peril did they seek to subvert the natural order of things. They would bend the rules to preserve life.”

“Dark means for a Light goal?” Vader frames it in terms the Jedi and the Sith would understand.

And that’s all wrong. “They would say that extreme magic could be used in extreme circumstances to defend their way of life. The ends justified their means.” Maul squints at his foe and asks, “Who are you trying to resurrect?”

Vader answers with the same reply he himself gave about Rhea: “No one.”

Maul does not pursue the point. But seeing a chance to lure Vader into a treason Father will never forgive, he again dangles the temptation of an alternative source of knowledge. “One man knows the secrets you seek. Find Darth Plagueis the Wise in the Unknown Regions. He will help you.”

“Do you think I’m a fool?”

Yes. “No. I think that if you wish to resurrect this person badly enough, you will risk anything.” Maul has plenty of firsthand experience with Dark obsessions. And this must be quite an obsession if it merits this strange conversation.

Vader’s emotions continue to spill out unchecked. Maul senses guilt now. It is very intriguing. Is Vader always this transparent, or has this topic made him especially vulnerable? The current Apprentice is shockingly unguarded in the Force. It’s so . . . uncontrolled. So lacking in discipline. Maul is at once fascinated and repulsed. For who knew a former Jedi could feel this much? The Light Side Knights were famously cold.

Maul doesn’t know this guy at all, but he knows his despair, dread, frustration, and hopelessness all the same. It’s almost uncomfortably intimate for this sort of meeting. Vader is oversharing big time. Is that arrogance or simply indifference? Could it be ignorance? Moreover, what does Vader have to be hopeless about? The guy has everything. Power, position, and Father’s esteem. He is the Apprentice, the Crown Prince of Darkness, and second-in-command for the new Sith Empire. The whole galaxy knows his name and fears him. Who could want more in life than that?

Vader must realize he has revealed too much. Abruptly, he decrees, “We’re done. You can leave. You are free to go.”

“That’s it?” Maul blinks at the announcement even as he chafes at its tone of dismissal.

“We’re done. I will not fight you, Maul.”

He bristles at the contempt behind those words. Maul now shifts his sword hilt to a safe position to activate. 

Vader recognizes the movement and immediately warns, “Do not light that sword. You’ll die by some trooper’s blaster bolt, not by my blade because I won’t give you the satisfaction of a fight.”

“Coward!” Maul hisses back. 

Vader is unconcerned. “I don’t fear you. I don’t fear anything. There’s nothing left for me to fear.”

The words are a boast, but their speaker sure doesn’t seem happy about them. If Vader relishes his position as Apprentice, it doesn’t show. The man seems rather defeated, actually. It’s as befuddling as it is enraging. What does Father see in this guy?

Irked Maul even says so, wondering aloud, “Why does our Master keep you around?”

“I could say the same about you,” Vader retorts. “I don’t know why he tolerates you.”

“You know why,” Maul shoots back. “It’s for the same reason you call him Master but I call him Father.” 

“You call him Father?” His foe is taken aback.

“He is my Father,” Maul grinds out. “He raised me from ten years old.”

“You have my sympathies.” Vader actually sounds sincere, but it could be more sarcasm.

The comment compounds Maul’s assessment of how unworthy his replacement is. “You hate him . . . you really hate him . . . ” he marvels at the open effrontery of Vader’s attitude towards Darth Sidious.

“Hate is power. What kind Sith are you, Maul?” Vader jeers. “If I could feel pity, I would pity you. You’re pathetic. Still living for a dream that died decades ago.”

“Kenobi got us both,” Maul points out. “The Force humbles us all now and then. I’d have thought that dip in a lava lake taught you that lesson already.”

“You want to fight so badly, don’t you?” Vader snickers. “Do you think to prove your worth? To reclaim your position? It just kills you how far you have sunk,” he gloats. “You were replaced long before I arrived. I won’t engage with you as an equal now.”

“You’re not my equal, you Jedi pretender,” irate Maul snarls. He hazards a few paces forward, looking pointedly at the sword hanging off Vader’s belt. “You are unwise not to muster your defenses.”

“You are surrounded. Before you can take a swing with that weapon, my men will open fire.”

“Coward!” Maul rages, his face a twisted mask of resentment at his predicament. Vader engineered this meeting just to tease him. All that talk about the Nightsisters was a convoluted pretext, he suspects. Well, Maul fully intends to make certain all of Vader’s men know he is declining a challenge. “Fight me, coward!” he rasps in a voice that carries. “Fight like a Lord of the Sith, not like some garrison commander who arranges troops on a map!”

The provocation works. Vader stalks forward now. Is he going to reach for his sword? He does not. Instead, he fights with more words. “I’m a fool, not a coward. You don’t know it, Maul, but you can’t win. I either kill you or my men kill you—"

“You can’t kill me!”

“—and even if somehow you managed to kill me, you’d still lose. You don’t want to be me. You just think you do.”

The condescension grates. “Coward! I was you! I was the Apprentice!”

“You’re free now, Maul. I suggest you enjoy it.”

“Father deserves better than you! Tell him I’ll be back! This time I will make him proud.”

Father loves him, and he loves Father. Despite all their differences—his failure and Father’s abandonment—they are still family. And one day, they will reunite and this Vader guy will be the odd one out. For surely all that Chosen One fearmongering has been proven wrong at this point? Wrecked, depressed Vader doesn’t seem like much of an existential threat to the Sith ten years in.

“You lost your chance,” the masked man declares. “Be grateful that’s how it worked out. Go enjoy the life you have . . . with your loyal wife who loves you enough to accept my wrath.”

“Be careful what you wish for? Is that it?”

“Yes.” And now, the booming voice fades a bit. For once, Vader speaks in the tone of a normal man. “If I could let you be the Apprentice, Maul, I would. But we both know I can’t. And since I’m not willing to die to get out, there’s no point in fighting. Neither of us benefits from fighting.”

“And they called Kenobi ‘the Negotiator,’” Maul mocks him. He cocks his head up at the imposing figure and taunts, “Still the Jedi idealist, aren’t you? Still trying to find the win-win.”

“It’s not idealism, it’s logic. But I forget, you were once insane. Perhaps you do not comprehend logic.”

“How did you know that?” Maul gulps.

“My Master.”

“He speaks of me?” 

“Seldom and only as a cautionary tale. You are his byword for failure.”

Maul is miserable about that truth. He lets curiosity get the better of him now. “What did he promise you? How did he tempt such a famous Jedi hero to the Dark Side?”

“It was a lie.”

“Of course, it was a lie! Did you really expect a Sith lord to fulfill his end of the bargain?”

“I told you I was a fool.”

“Are you really the Chosen One?”

“No. That was a lie too.”

They are at a standoff. Vader was the victor at the outset, but now Maul is not so sure. The longer this bizarre conversation goes on, the more it seems they are both losers. Neither of them gets glory today.

It occurs to him now that he and Vader might be one another’s replacement, but they are also the closest thing they each have to a peer. Vader is the favorite son Apprentice now, but he’s the prodigal son waiting in the wings. They are rivals for Darth Sidious’ esteem. Something like feuding brothers in the Force. Two strangers who are very different and yet strangely alike. United by their bond to their Master, their defeats to Kenobi, and their ruined bodies, if nothing else.

Maul stops himself. He's projecting again. It’s a bad habit of his. A Sith lord should not have empathy, he recalls to his chagrin. 

Flustered, he now takes refuge in a threat. “I am going to kill you,” he vows to his foe. “If you won’t duel today, then I will kill you one day on the field of battle.”

“Going to start a war?”

“Yes. That was your head’s up.”

Vader seems more impressed by the threat of war than the threat of death. For he now issues his own warning. “If you start a war, I will kill you, Maul. I will not allow the Empire to fall apart. I lived through one civil war and it was enough. The galaxy needs order. Otherwise, opportunists like you fall out of the woodwork. I’ve seen your handiwork on Mandalore.”

“Peace is a lie!” Maul reminds him of a maxim of Darkness.

Arrogant Vader has a different take. “Peace is real, and I will kill you and anyone else who tries to disturb the peace of the Empire.”

“Is that what you’re doing on Mimban? Making peace?”

“Yes. I killed my way to peace in the Clone Wars. I’m killing my way to peace now.”

It’s a ridiculous statement, really. Dark means for a Light end? Just how conflicted is Vader? Maul wonders.

Father’s lackey now dismisses him again. “Go, before I change my mind and kill you. Take that crying woman and go.”

Irritated to be reminded of the scene with Rhea, Maul informs Vader, “I foresaw your rise in the Force, and I will be there at your end.”

“He will never take you back. You know it to be true. There are no second chances on the Dark Side. So, take your wife and leave. You may never realize it, but you are already a winner, Maul.”

“Coward!” he once again accuses.

But Vader continues to shrug off the repeated epithet. He chides with maximum sarcasm, “I am not often this merciful. Careful, lest I reconsider.”

Seething Maul has the presence of mind to recognize that he and Rhea are getting out of this confrontation alive and that counts for a win. But it’s not the win he wants. Far from it, in fact. He is disappointed, humiliated, and perplexed all at the same time. 

Darth Vader is not the rival he expected to confront. The brute who blithely slaughters millions won’t deign to light his sword in his presence. Disdainful Vader shoos him away. He wants a fight, but Vader gives him mercy instead. It’s an outcome more Jedi than Sith. But it’s all couched in words of derision and a tone of contempt. That bit is Dark, at least.

The guy must have been a terrible Jedi. He emotes far too much. The façade of the cold, ruthless killer in a mask is exposed as a lie today. Far from being dispassionate, Vader’s a quivering mess in the Force. The only topics that seem to get under his skin are reminders of his Jedi past and the threat of civil war. Well, and Rhea. For some inexplicable reason, Rhea seems to have made quite an impression on Vader.

“We will meet again,” Maul vows to his enemy in the tone his Crimson Dawn underlings know to fear. “And next time, you won’t have an army to hide behind.”

Vader says nothing. He just crosses his arms. 

Seething, Maul boards his ship with as much dignity as he can muster. Once inside, he steps over sleeping Rhea and heads to the cockpit to focus on takeoff. He’ll use the time it takes to flee to hyperspace to simmer down before he wakes her up. He needs that break. He feels his Darkness surging. He had been poised to fight, intentionally stoking his power with anger and threats, preparing to vent his rage on Vader. But that opportunity is denied. Maul finds himself all worked up with no foe to vanquish. 

But the beast within demands to be appeased. And so, the temptation to lash out at Rhea—to kick her small defenseless form viciously and repeatedly, is so strong that it scares him. Maul is angry, so very angry. With her, with Vader, with himself, and with the universe in general. He knows from experience that when he’s in these moods only violence soothes him. 

But that violence will be temporary, ineffective, and unsatisfying. It won’t improve his lot in life. He will remain who he is—the castoff Sith who lives by his wits and busies himself mostly with crime and a never-ending revenge quest. 

This is the crux of the rage of Darth Maul. For a Sith warrior is first and foremost supposed to be dangerous. A Sith’s unleashed ambitions and untamed passions are the fruit of chaos, of revolution, and of conquest. Father taught that a Lord of the Sith dares anything. He does what others’ inhibitions restrain. He plots the improbable. He executes the impossible. He lives beyond rules. 

But not Darth Maul. His Darkness is as impotent as his body is now. There’s only the rebellion left as his hope for a comeback. That’s not a new revelation. He came to that conclusion when he joined up with Plagueis. But today’s confrontation with Vader brings it home in a very disheartening fashion. 

More than anything, he wants to matter. To matter at least enough for his enemies to want to kill him because they fear what the future will bring if he survives to fight another day. But today confirms that he’s not a contender. He’s not even a credible threat. Vader had declined to fight and ordered him on his way. That clemency—however fortuitous--had been the ultimate diss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a slave to the SW canon, even if I like to embellish it or subvert it on a regular basis. For that reason, Maul and Vader couldn't do much here. But I wanted them to meet. Vader won't appear again in this story, but he will matter.
> 
> Vader in this chapter is the same character from Twilight of the Gods minus a few years. He's the miserable, self-aware but trapped Sith who keeps trying but failing to convince himself to be content with the life he has chosen. My Vader hates his Master, but he might hate himself more. At this point, he's still very much obsessed with resurrecting his dead wife. Twilight of the Gods picks up after he has abandoned that objective. 
> 
> The Chosen One is a bad fit for the Jedi Order and an even less impressive Sith. But that's sort of the point of being the Chosen One. Maul sees right away that the man is conflicted. So is Maul, but he would never admit to it.


	29. chapter 29

Rhea opens her eyes and is momentarily disoriented. Where is she? She’s lying fully clothed on her bed in her room at the compound just down the hall from Mrs. Nettles’ room. There’s a reason it’s unfamiliar. She hasn’t slept here in months. She usually spends her nights with Maul. They basically live together in his quarters very quietly.

Groggy, she wipes at her eyes and wonders briefly was it all a dream? No, it was definitely not a dream. She recalls very vividly the chase, the capture, the confrontation, and then . . . kneeling to beg at the shiny booted feet of Lord Vader. In utter terror, Rhea had watched peeking out from within the ship until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She had rushed out to intervene.

And then what happened? 

Where is Maul? Is he alright? 

Was he arrested? If so, how did she get home?

Rhea sits up and checks her comlink that’s lying on the bedside table alongside her datapad. The time shows that it’s the middle of the day on Dathomir. Doing the math in her head, Rhea realizes that a full standard rotation day of her life is missing. Alarmed, she ignores the many messages waiting for her attention. Instead, she heads down the hallway into the kitchen. Mrs. Nettles is there planning the next week’s meals with Cook when Rhea bursts in. 

“Well, good morning, sleeping beauty,” the prickly-on-the-exterior, soft-on-the-interior housekeeper greets her.

“Where’s Maul?”

“Working, I assume. He carried you in last night. Said you fell asleep on the flight home and he didn’t want to wake you.”

“It was so romantic,” Cook gushes quite unexpectedly.

“But he’s okay? He’s here and he’s not hurt?” Rhea frets. 

Mrs. Nettles looks to Cook and the two women exchange shrugs. “The boss looked fine to me. What’s this all about?” the housekeeper complains. “Rhea, you look spooked. Sit down.”

“Eat something,” Cook chimes in.

Rhea is spooked. She has a full day of her life missing and the last thing she remembers is Darth Vader. He had been simply enormous in person. Every bit as scary as the holonet clips she’s watched. 

“Well, sit down,” Mrs. Nettles prods, gesturing to the kitchen table.

Rhea shakes her head. “I need to find Maul.”

Her tone must convey the depth of her concern. Mrs. Nettles frowns. “Rhea, what’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer. She just dashes out the door and heads for Maul’s private quarters. 

He’s not there. Breakfast from the morning sits untouched on the table by the couch. His screens aren’t going like usual and there are no lit datapads cast aside. Could he be in a meeting or taking a break? Maybe. But it looks to her like he never even started his day. Maul’s not in his training room blowing off steam with his sword either. In fact, a quick search confirms that all of his private rooms are empty. So, Rhea heads next for the public areas of the compound.

She nearly collides with Uli along the way. He and the other gang lieutenants who deal with the Hutt Clan are entering a conference room. 

“Whoa there! Rhea, what’s your rush?”

“Is Maul here?”

“Nah. Haven’t seen him yet.”

“Is he in the fancy office?”

Marisol’s easygoing husband shrugs. “Dunno, kiddo.” He looks closer at her now, giving much the same expression as Mrs. Nettles did earlier. “Hey, are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Maul is the one to worry about. Wait—could he have left Dathomir? Rhea wonders aloud, “Is his ship here?”

“Yep. He’s here somewhere. He’ll turn up. We’ve got a problem for him to deal with this afternoon.”

“Problem?” she echoes blankly.

Uli makes a face. “We caught a local guy on Dantooine skimming credits from the bribe accounts. That money was supposed to pay off the local officials, not line his own pockets.”

“Dantooine?” Rhea gulps. “Oh, no.” That’s where the secret rebel training base is. Keeping the local system officials happy there is particularly important since they need to look the other way for more than just the usual gang activity. 

“Yeah, the boss was not pleased when I told him,” Uli grumbles as he runs a hand down his long face. “Said to bring him in ASAP.”

“So you’ve seen Maul?” she presses hopefully.

“We exchanged messages. That’s all.” The longtime gang member who is the closest thing to Maul’s righthand man sighs. He knows his boss. “That Dantooine guy is a goner, for sure. Maul said he wanted to handle it personally.” Uli meets her eyes. “You know what that means.”

Rhea nods. She knows exactly what that means. 

“So, we’ve all been staying out of Maul’s way,” Uli explains. “Best not to be around him on days like today. We’re keeping our heads down and doing our jobs. Right guys?” Around him, there is a chorus of concurring murmurs and nods from the rest of the men.

“Of course, we’re not you,” Uli winks as he alludes to the open secret of her relationship with Maul. “So maybe you can put him in a better mood.”

“Maul’s here but he’s not at the compound,” Rhea summarizes aloud what she’s learned. Where could he be? If he’s on Dathomir, he’s always working or in his private quarters. Except when he’s gone to visit—“Mother!” she blurts out.

“What?” Confused Uli squints. 

“He went to see his mother!” It’s where Maul always goes when he needs encouragement and advice. 

“His mother? Hey, I thought all the local people were long dead--”

“She is dead. But she looks after him in the Force,” distracted Rhea answers. “It’s magic,” she adds.

“Got it. Say no more.” Uli raises a hand to forestall her. Everyone at Crimson Dawn is afraid of the Force. With good reason, since they have only ever seen Maul kill with his power. They don’t know that the Force is so much more than lightsabers.

But that’s a topic for another day. “Thanks, Uli.”

Rhea heads outside now. She is heedless of the hem of the fancy long dress she’s still wearing. Her flat slippers aren’t exactly well suited to a hike in the debris strewn fields either. But Rhea doesn’t care. She sets off walking to the east. Towards the thick swampy woods where the Nightsisters once convened their coven. 

Here is where the battle for Dathomir was its most vicious. There are rusty abandoned tank husks and bits and pieces of dismembered battle droids lying about. Just looking at these vivid reminders of the past makes Rhea gulp back bad memories. But she keeps walking with determination. She will walk through Hell and back—even the Hell of the Separatist genocide on Dathomir—to get to Maul.

After climbing a slight rise, she has a full view of a large meadow below. Striding through the tall grass that sways slightly in the breeze is the last Nightbrother.

Maul looks fine. She’s already heard that is the case, but the relief Rhea feels seeing it with her own eyes is enormous. 

He’s the Mother Witch’s firstborn son who was stolen by Darth Sidious. That kidnapping set him off on a meandering path in life. He was born a Brother, raised a Sith, and became an outlaw. From a soul crushing defeat, he set out to make something of himself to fund his revenge quest. Before long, he ended up a crime lord who rivals the Hutts and the Pikes. And now, he’s a rebel who smuggles Jedi fugitives and goes toe to toe with Darth Vader. Maul Oppress is a marvelously complicated man. Some days, Rhea completely understands him. Other days, she finds him mysterious. But there is no denying his strange charisma. 

He’s so different from other men. So exotically attractive with his tribal tattoos and the crown of horns that marks him for the prince he truly is. So unexpectedly cerebral with his elite higher education that very few know he has and Rhea herself envies. So devoted and loyal too despite all his warnings about betrayals. For he tells her to never trust a Sith and yet he still loves the heartless father who rejects him. Maybe that’s foolish, but it’s also very Maul. He’s ruthless in business but in personal matters he tends to be forgiving to a fault. Sometimes, it’s like he’s a glutton for punishment where Darth Sidious is concerned.

Still, it’s an endearing quality and it’s part of why she loves him. Rhea wants to be the constant source of support that has long been lacking in Maul’s life since the Emperor killed his mother and his brother. She will be the one to keep faith with him even if others do not. Because regardless of his many sins, Maul deserves better in life. And maybe if things improve for him personally, he will be less inclined to Darkness. For Rhea sees so much promise in Maul, both for herself and for the galaxy.

Rhea comes to a halt on the hilltop now, standing still as the breeze billows her skirt. She watches as Maul approaches. Even at a distance, she recognizes that particular set to his jaw. Uli is right to keep away, for Maul is in a very bad mood. 

He’s striding fast and he doesn’t stop. Yellow eyes glance at her and then look away as he passes. She doesn’t need the Force to read his body language. He’s upset with her, like she knew he would be. His solution is a cold rebuff. That too is no surprise, for Maul is an expert at rejection. 

Unfortunately, you learn best how to inflict pain by using the methods others used to hurt you. It’s why the abused so often grow up to become abusers. It’s why dysfunction can tend to replicate itself in families and in institutions. For as it turns out, emotional habits and learned responses are hard to break. Over time, they become coping mechanisms of a sort. And then, the victim becomes the perpetrator and the cycle begins anew. That’s why the cruelly rejected Maul now cruelly rejects her.

Rhea instantly understands it as her cue to give chase. She whirls and hastens to catch up. She has to jog a little. 

“You’ve been to see your Mother?”

“Yes.” The word is clipped. 

“What did she say?”

“She doesn’t believe in me either.”

“What did she say?” Rhea presses again. She’s slightly breathless already from the effort to keep up.

Maul’s expression is a thundercloud as he spits out, “She said the same thing she always says--to beware of Vader.”

At his side, Rhea concurs. “She’s right.”

Maul now abruptly halts and lashes out. “How would you know? You’re dead to the Force! Just a pathetic, powerless, housemaid! You’d be nothing without me!”

Rhea blinks as she absorbs the hissed tirade she knew was coming.

He’s not finished. “You’re nothing! You come from nothing, you have nothing, you’ll always be nothing! You have no place in this story. But I do! I am the story! All along, I was supposed to be the story!” 

That’s the frustration that perpetually dogs him: Maul still wants the life that fate and his father denied him. He has yet to find an acceptable substitute for the glory of being the Apprentice. Rhea worries he never will.

She lets his rush of angry words wash over her. Nothing about this latest reaction surprises her. Maul always takes refuge in verbal abuse when he feels most vulnerable. He never shoots the messenger in business, but when it comes to personal matters, he has a habit of lashing out. He belittles her or even threatens to kill her. The first few times it happened, she had been crushed by his vitriol. But she’s been with Maul long enough now to know to anticipate it. She has learned that the intensity of his words is less a measure of his temper than it is a yardstick for his hurt.

Rhea ignores the literal words and focuses on the fear that motivates them. She knows that thanks to his Sith training, Maul abhors weakness. He has a hard enough time managing the self-loathing he feels for his disability and his failure at Naboo. He cannot allow himself to confront his fears for the future and for them as a couple. So, she becomes his convenient whipping boy. A safe space to vent his frustration and uncertainty. She knows he doesn’t mean it. He knows that she knows, and that’s why he does it, Rhea suspects.

Maybe another girl would turn on heel and walk away from this behavior. She’d term it toxic and unhealthy, or maybe manipulative and abusive. She might be right, too. But that girl didn’t live her entire adult life with a disfiguring scar that earned her aversion and scorn. Rhea’s far more used to being ridiculed than most women. She long ago got into the habit of accepting it from strangers. So tolerating it from Maul is no big deal.

Rhea tries to be conciliatory. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes?” he jeers. “For what? Let’s hear it.”

She starts her mea culpas. “I’m sorry for disobeying you. I should have stayed on the ship.”

“And?” he fumes. “What else?”

“For contradicting you in front of others.” She hangs her head and contritely mumbles, “I know my place.”

“I highly doubt that,” he grouses. Then he snaps, “What else? What else are you sorry for?”

“For intervening . . . ”

“Is that your euphemism for telling me to surrender? For begging for me at the feet of my replacement? For shaming me before my enemies?” 

The words are deceptively quiet. Maul is never loud when angry. The more upset he becomes, the slower and more controlled his speech sounds. It’s the opposite of most men. It’s also very effective.

“Well?”

“Y-Yes,” Rhea chokes out as she struggles to keep her failing composure. Maul is a proud man. She knew he would feel this way, but it didn't stop her in the moment. Because she would rather he be alive and livid with her than dead at the hands of Lord Vader.

“I’m sorry for everything,” she wails as disgusted Maul presents his profile to her. It’s yet another rejection. He won’t even look at her, he’s so furious. 

“You disappoint me!” he snarls.

“I know . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“You’re not sorry you did any of it,” he correctly assesses. “You’re just sorry I’m angry.”

It’s true. Rhea would do it again—all of it—if it would save him. But how did Maul survive to fight another day? She worries he cut a deal. 

“Tell me—did you—did you—"

“Did I what?” 

“Did you sell out the rebellion?”

“No.”

“Was it Senator Organa then?” she worries. 

“No. He’s already outed to the Empire.”

She’s really concerned now. “Oh, Maul,“ she gasps, “you didn’t betray Plagueis and his hidden Jedi, did you?”

“No.”

“Then did you pay Vader off?” she guesses.

Maul shoots her a look of impatience. “He doesn’t care about credits. He only cares about power.”

“Then you gave him power,” she concludes.

“He asked for power. He wanted to know the Nightsister resurrection ritual.”

“And you told him?”

Maul shakes his head. “I couldn’t. I don’t know it. That knowledge died with the coven.” He sighs and complains, “Vader never even asked me any real questions. He was too focused on resurrecting someone important to him.”

“Oh. How odd.” She’s perplexed at this news.

“I don’t understand it either. He missed a huge chance to bust the Senator and the rebellion.” 

Before she can ask, Maul now volunteers, “He let me go.”

“He let you go?” she repeats in disbelief. Like perhaps she has misheard.

“He let me go.”

“Oh.”

Looking at Maul’s face, Rhea realizes that this is the crux of the problem. “He refused to fight me,” chagrined Maul admits forlornly. “He called me a criminal. Said he wouldn’t stoop to my level.”

“I’m glad,” Rhea blurts out before she can stop herself. 

That sets him off again. “He’s the craven one, not I! I will meet Vader anywhere, anytime to cross swords!”

“Maul, it’s too soon--maybe someday when the war has started—“

“You don’t believe I can win,” he accuses. Before she can respond, he rages, “Mother thinks what you think—that I can’t beat him . . . that this will be Kenobi all over again . . .”

“You couldn’t beat him on his own ship surrounded by an army. I didn’t want to see you throw your life away—“

“Mother thinks the same thing! But I think she’s more worried that I will win than that I’ll lose. Because killing Vader leads me back to Father, which neither of you wants.” 

When Rhea remains silent, he snarls, “Admit it! You don’t want me as the Apprentice again!”

She phrases it differently. “The rebels need you. Your future lies with them as their leader and their champion.”

“My future lies where I and the Force decide!” Maul glares hard at her. “Mother hates Father. If I’m the Apprentice again, Father wins. Mother can’t stand to see him win. But you—you’re supposed to be on my side . . . but you’re not.” Again, he shoots her a withering look of true hurt.

“I want you to be safe and to be happy!” she protests.

“You’re afraid!”

“Yes!” She will freely confess to fearing for Maul’s wellbeing. “I don’t want to see you hurt again! Your father isn’t worth it! Stop trying to go back to him!”

“Plagueis is a snake. He’s not trustworthy.”

“If you make yourself important enough to the rebellion, he’ll have to support you,” she reasons. “They don’t have another Force user on their team besides that awful Jedi woman. Maul, if you take out Vader, you’ll be a rebel hero!”

“You still don’t understand how power works. In the Rule of Two, I either serve Father or I serve Plagueis. I would rather serve Father.”

“He won’t take you back,” she warns.

“You don’t know that!”

“I do. Everyone can see that . . . except you.”

Maul looks stricken now. Like he’s truly rattled. His eyes keep darting to her like she’s the enemy.

Rhea seizes the moment to say what she’s been longing to say for months now. “Maul,” she whispers, “fulfill your destiny. Take your father’s place at his Master’s side. It is time to be more than the Apprentice to the Apprentice. Supplant Sheev Palpatine and surpass him.” She reaches out for Maul’s arm and urges, “The galaxy needs you to do it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters as he shrugs her off. It’s clear there will be no heartfelt reunion between them in solidarity after eluding the threat of Vader.

She tries again. “The galaxy needs you.”

Maul says nothing. He just resumes walking towards the compound, leaving her behind.

Rhea follows him inside. She heads back to her old bedroom, cries her eyes out in a long, hot shower, and then changes her clothes. She’s reasonably presentable now as she puts her head down and walks to her makeshift office. Maybe work will cheer her up.

As expected, her comlink message box is full. Her datapad is the same. It looks like the entire rebel alliance has been checking up on her. It’s nice but dangerous. Even with innocuous message titles and ‘Hi, how are you?’ casual contents, these communications could easily cause the senders to fall under suspicion. Everyone is very lucky that the Imperials let her go without confiscating her electronics. Maul has very strict rules on this sort of thing for gang members, but the decentralized rebel alliance is apparently far more lax about security.

Her comlink starts buzzing now with an urgent holocall. It's Bail Organa of Alderaan calling. Against her better judgement, she answers.

"Rhea, we've been trying to reach you--"

“This isn't safe. Senator, you are compromised."

"I know.”

"We need to hang up."

"He's not calling on his comlink," a familiar voice sounds just as the towering figure of Darth Plagueis the Wise moves into view. Bail Organa is a big, strapping human man, but the secret Muun Sith makes him look almost small by comparison. "He's using my equipment,” Plagueis assures her. “It is specially encrypted and perfectly safe, never fear."

"Oh. Okay. Hello . . . uh . . . Prince . . . " Rhea has the presence of mind to use Plagueis' alias within the rebellion.

The Sith Master smiles and returns the greeting like this is a polite social occasion not precipitated by treason. "Ms. Cardulla."

Bail Organa, however, prefers to dispense with the pleasantries. It’s a departure from his usual demeanor that speaks volumes about how stressed he feels. "We've been trying to reach you and Maul for hours.” The Senator starts peppering her with quick questions now. “Are you alright? That looks like your office. Are you on Dathomir?"

"Yes. I'm fine. We are safe."

"We heard you were captured."

"We were."

"That was Vader's ship."

"It was. I'm fine. We're both fine."

"Then why do you look like you've been crying?" Plagueis observes.

Embarrassed, Rhea can feel her cheeks flush. Mortified, she looks down and stammers, "It . . . uh . . . hasn't been the best morning . . . "

"What happened?" the Senator presses impatiently.

"Tell us, my dear," Plagueis encourages more gently. "What happened with Lord Vader?"

She gets to the punchline immediately. "He let us go."

"He what??" the Senator blinks.

"Vader let us go."

"In exchange for what?" Again, Darth Plagueis prods her to talk. "Rhea, what did Maul do?" he rumbles ominously.

"I don't really know," she confesses. Seeing Bail Organa's face has jogged her memory now. Rattled Rhea wonders aloud, "Did you get your little girl to safety, Senator?"

"Huh?" It’s a non sequitur that catches Bail Organa unaware. 

"Your little girl with the Force. Your Crown Princess."

The Senator and the secret Sith lord exchange looks. 

"Maul and I saw her on the landing pad," Rhea explains. "You introduced us, remember?"

"That was foolish." Plagueis fixes his companion with a stern glare.

Rhea is pretty much babbling now. "Maul says you need to hide her from Vader because he will kill her . . . "

Plagueis nods. "What else did Maul say about the little Princess?"

"That's it."

"Tell us what happened with Vader." The rebel Senator tries to get them back on topic. “We need to hear about Vader.”

Rhea nods. She bites her lip, feeling anxious all over again as she recalls the tense confrontation that had her panicking inside the ship. "He had hundreds of troopers surrounding Maul . . . he wouldn't fight Maul . . . Maul called him a coward . . . I think he is a coward . . . hiding behind an army like that . . .”

"And?" the Senator prods.

"Maul called him a Jedi . . . called him by his real name . . . he didn't like that."

Bail Organa looks to Plagueis with alarm. "Maul knows?"

The Muun with the ruined face shrugs off the concern. "Plenty of people know. What else, Rhea?"

"I didn't hear it all. It was a lot of trash talk."

"Naturally. What were the questions?"

"There weren't any real questions. And there wasn't a fight." As tense as it was, it was rather anticlimactic. For Maul, that was the worst part. 

Plagueis looks her in the eye. "Rhea, are you sure they didn’t talk about the Crown Princess?"

"Maul said they talked about the witches."

"The who?" Again, Bail Organa isn't following.

"The Witches of Dathomir, Maul's people. They talked about the witches and the Force. I didn't hear it. I was asleep." She sheepishly admits in a small voice, “Maul put me to sleep with his magic so I wouldn't interfere anymore."

The Senator and the Muun lean forward with alarm at this reveal. 

"Rhea, what did you do?" the secret Sith rumbles.

“Uh . . . I . . . uh . . . ”

“Tell us,” Plagueis commands. 

She cringes as she confesses the truth. Her voice cracks as she relives the moment that Maul views as a betrayal and she views as a sacrifice. "I told Vader to arrest me instead. Because Maul only helped Master Timmons as payback for healing me. It was my fault . . . I tried to take responsibility . . . to save him . . .” Her voice trails off as tears threaten once again. 

“That was brave of you,” Plagueis commends. “I take it Maul did not approve?”

She looks down and chokes out, “N-No.”

“Pricked his pride, did you?” the Muun harrumphs, deciding, “He’ll get over it.”

“I don’t think so . . . “ she half-whispers, blinking fast as she gives an involuntary sniff.

"What did you tell Vader about the rebellion?" Bail Organa demands. 

"Nothing. Maul didn't tell him anything either."

"What about the Jedi--did you talk about the Jedi?"

"No. Vader only wanted to know about the witches."

"What about the witches?" Darth Plagueis asks, his sunken yellow eyes narrowing. 

"He wanted Maul to tell him how they raised the dead. Vader wants to resurrect someone with the Force . . . or something like that . . . “

"That's more important for Vader than the Purge?" Senator Organa’s face wrinkles in a skeptical frown.

"Apparently, so," she replies. "Maul didn't think it made any sense either."

"Very interesting," Plagueis comments. 

“Where’s Maul? Go get Maul to join the call,” the somewhat exasperated Senator wants to hear the whole story from a better source. 

Rhea sighs and slumps. “Uh . . . I don’t think that’s a good idea right now . . . “ she stalls. 

“Just go get him, please.”

Darth Plagueis waves the Senator off. “Bail, she is upset for a reason. I will handle this.” He looks to her. “Tell Maul I’m coming. I will be there tomorrow.”

But Rhea is in no hurry to find Maul to tell him about the upcoming Plagueis visit. She decides to give Maul some space while she tackles her overflowing inbox. It’s a strategy to cheer herself up. Ticking things off her list feels good. The progress is satisfying and positive. Hours pass unnoticed by Rhea as she busies herself on the Yavin project, burying her mind in punch lists and invoices to avoid dwelling on their conflict.

Still, it’s impossible to avoid the boss of Crimson Dawn for long. Very absorbed, Rhea literally jumps when there is a soft knock on her makeshift office door. 

It’s Uli. “Sorry to scare you. Can you come outside for a minute?” 

“Sure. What’s up?” 

“Maul’s outside. He’s why I need you.”

Oh. Rhea scans Uli’s face. It’s the deliberate poker face that all the top gang lieutenants use for unpleasantness. Rhea has been at the compound long enough to recognize it. There is lots of unpleasantness in their line of work. “What’s wrong?”

“That guy from Dantooine’s here and, well . . . you’ll see.”

“Ugh. Do I have to?” She doesn’t like to witness violence if she can avoid it. 

Uli nods and holds her gaze. “He didn’t choke him and he’s not using his sword.”

Okay. Is that supposed to mean something? Rhea squints at Uli. “What are you telling me?”

“It’s not a clean kill.”

Fearful of what she will see, Rhea gingerly accompanies the gang lieutenant out to the landing pad. There she finds Maul torturing a Rhodian who writhes in pain on the pavement. Maul is shooting some strange blue lightning from his fingertips that occasionally flashes green. He paces around the dying man, punctuating his angry words with bursts of the Force energy like some wrathful god. 

Clearly, no one in attendance has seen anything like it. The men of Crimson Dawn stand about, shifting their weight and shifting their eyes. These men have seen plenty of violence in their time, and each has committed his fair share to rise in the ranks of the gang. But even they seem uncomfortable at this electrocution version of an execution.

That means the entire group is subdued. The only sounds are Maul’s terse condemnations, his crackling magic, and the pleas for mercy for the wretched victim. It’s gleeful sadism and suffering. It is very hard to witness. Rhea screws up her face and looks away involuntarily.

“Were those credits worth it?” Maul purrs.

“Just kill me . . . please . . .” his victim groans.

“This is the most fun I’ve had all day,” Maul sneers back as he shoots more of the magic lightning and the man screams. 

Maul’s face shows the truth of his words. He is having fun. In fact, he’s smiling. It’s the truly unnerving part of a very unsettling scene. It’s also the first glimpse Rhea has had of the man who went stark raving mad after Naboo. For in the moment, Maul looks a bit unhinged. It scares her. 

Uli leans in to tell her under his breath, “He refuses to stop. That’s why I came for you. I thought maybe you could help.”

“How long has this been going on?” she mutters, her eyes pinned on Maul. He knows she’s here in the Force, even if he still refuses to look at her.

“Over an hour,” Uli answers. 

She alone knows what has really prompted this overkill. This isn’t about embezzling from the gang, it’s about what happened over Alderaan. Even so, ever-strategic Maul is venting his anger on a man who ostensibly deserves it. He’s sending a message to the few trusted gang leaders who witness his rage firsthand and to the rest of Crimson Dawn who will eventually hear the lurid story once it makes the rounds. Could this be a message to her as well? Maybe. 

But it’s gone on long enough. With a deep, fortifying breath, Rhea speaks up over the smoking Rhodian’s moans. “Use the sword, Maul.”

“Still think I can’t kill Darth Vader?” he jeers back without looking at her. “One good shot of lightning and that machine man will short circuit and suffocate inside his mask.”

Is that what this is about? Proving his worth in the Force? Maul’s ego is sore, she knows, from her actions and from his mother’s warnings. So, she affirms his wizardry. “I see that. We all see that. But this guy’s no Darth Vader. Use the sword and be done with it.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

“Maybe you should be. Venamis—Plagueis—is coming.”

That gets Maul’s attention. He drops his hands poised to shoot more magic at his victim. “Called you, did he?” Yellow eyes narrow on her as he reconsiders. “Or did you call him?”

“He called me. Senator Organa was with him. They have been trying to contact us. They were worried about us.”

“They’re worried we talked,” Maul sniffs.

“I told them what happened,” Rhea is deliberately vague, mindful of their many witnesses. 

She looks to the man on the pavement. He appears to have fallen unconscious. Truly, the Rhodian is pitiful looking, but she knows his actions could have far reaching consequences. “Is Dantooine compromised?”

“Unclear.”

“If it is, we need to warn them.”

“Obviously.”

“Please use the sword and get this over with. Then, we can go deal with the situation.” She wrinkles her nose. “This is t-too much.” It’s gratuitous. 

“Maybe so. But it feels good.” He raises his hands again to resume the torture.

“Maul, use the sword,” she urges again, taking a step forward before he can begin. This whole scene is so unlike him. He kills fairly regularly, but he never makes a show of it.

“I give the orders around here,” Maul reminds her. His next words are cold and cutting. “You’re getting very confident these days, housemaid. I’m not sure I like it. I think I prefer you skulking in the corners of rooms, afraid of your own shadow.”

“Use the sword,” she persists. “We have work to do."

“I give the orders around here!” he hisses, finally turning to face her. He stalks over towards her. Rhea can’t help it, she retreats a bit. But Maul keeps advancing even as he pulls his trademark weapon and twists. The saberstaff neatly breaks into two pieces. She didn’t know it could do that. It’s no longer a double-bladed weapon. It’s two separate swords. 

“You didn’t follow orders on the ship at Alderaan. Let’s see you follow orders now. Here,” Maul thrusts one of the swords at her. “You kill him.”

“Me?” she squeals and recoils.

“Yes, you. You’re my lieutenant for armaments, and all my lieutenants kill for me. This guy may have compromised your pet project. So technically, he would be under your jurisdiction. So, I delegate the matter to you.”

Rhea’s eyes grow huge. “You want me to—??“ 

“Yes. Yesterday, you were ready to die for me. Today, I’m only asking you to kill for me. Take it.” He proffers the weapon again emphatically.

“But Maul—“ she gasps, raising her hands high and away from the sword.

“Go on. You’ve been building the rebel war machine with me. You’re getting ready to kill a lot of people. Why not start now?” he sneers. 

She’s alarmed at this casual public reference to their treason, but Maul is unconcerned. “Oh, they all know, little general,” Maul’s sarcasm is thick. “Don’t pretend you’re not a bloodthirsty bitch lusting for revolution.”

Dismayed Rhea looks to glaring Maul and then around at the poker faces of their audience. She catches veteran Uli’s eyes. He gives her a slight nod along with a pleading look. That’s the prod which horrified Rhea needs to accept the weapon. 

It’s heavy in her hand like a blaster. A cold tube of black steel. She holds it carefully, fearful that it will ignite for she’s seen what a lightsaber can do. As she looks down at it blankly, Rhea fervently wishes that she and Maul were an ordinary couple who could have a regular fight about kids or credits or something else mundane and solvable. But instead, they fight about Darth Vader, the Force, and the Rule of Two. And then it all culminates in a command performance execution. Because when you have a fight with your Sith lord lover, no one throws their comlink, calls names, makes threats, and breaks dishes. Someone dies instead. 

“I don’t want to do this,” she pleads to Maul under her breath.

“If you don’t do it, then I will carve him slowly into pieces while you watch,” Maul huffs. “Your refusal will only make him suffer more and die terribly. Now, turn it on. Press the lever by your thumb. Don’t drop it when it lights.”

“But Maul—"

“Quick and clean. Through the neck. You can do it.”

“This is punishment, isn’t it?” Rhea speaks her thoughts aloud. 

“Yes. For both of you.”

“I see.” She gulps. 

“You may think of it as mercy, if you like. As an act of compassion that puts an end to his torment.”

“But I’m killing him,” she points out, her heart racing.

“It’s what you wanted, isn't it?”

He’s right, but still . . . Maul was going to kill him anyway, so she was urging him to do it humanely. Not volunteering to do it herself.

“He’s guilty. I read his mind. There is no doubt. You may think of this as justice. His greed may require us to abandon the Dantooine base you worked so hard on.”

“But I don’t want to kill him,” she wails, her eyes brimming as tears threaten.

“Both Light and Dark kill,” Maul says as if that is some sort of precedent to follow. One look at his face tells her that he’s very serious.

Rhea swallows hard. She knows she needs to do this. But she doesn’t want to do this.

“It’s an order.”

“I see.”

“You will not disobey me this time. You will never disobey me again.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispers. Heartsick, she closes her eyes, girds her resolve, and lights the sword. It springs to life with a familiar snap-hiss she hears nightly coming from the training room.

“Good. Goooood, little one.” Maul speaks softly for her to hear. “I’m only doing this because I care. It is for your own good. This is a lesson you must learn. Now, show me you know your place and can do your duty.”

Gingerly, Rhea approaches the Rhodian lying eyes closed on the pavement. He’s a gang member who betrayed the gang—and maybe also unwittingly the rebellion—for his own gain. He knew the risk he was taking. The ultimate outcome here should not come as a surprise. The surprise here is that she’s the executioner.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes out loud to the unconscious man. 

Maul is getting impatient with her stalling. “Stop being so squeamish. You plot treason for the violent overthrow of the government. Moments like this on a grander scale will be the fruition of Dantooine and Yavin. Don’t kid yourself otherwise. War is death, no matter how righteous the cause.”

“I—I—“

“The saber will cut through him like butter. There is no need for more than the slightest swing.”

She cringes. “O-Okay . . . “

“Here.” Standing behind her, Maul positions the glowing red weapon poised for the fateful act. “Do it!” he commands. “Before he wakes up again and fears what’s coming. Put him down easily.”

Rhea is trembling now. She feels almost physically sick. “M-May the F-Force be w-with you . . . “ she mutters to the Rhodian.

“Do it!”

Closing her eyes, she kills. It’s woefully unremarkable in the end. She wouldn’t call it easy, but it’s not hard. The Rhodian never makes a sound or a movement. His severed head just rolls away in a bizarre, macabre denouement. 

Rhea shrieks, turns off the sword, and drops it. Then she runs fast into the compound.

She hides away inside to cry until she cannot cry any more. Hours later, she emerges to wander into the kitchen where sympathetic Marisol, Mrs. Nettles, and Cook already know what happened. They pat her shoulder, hand her tissues, and feed her dinner. Then, Cook plunks Maul’s dinner tray down on the table in front of her. “Ready to do this?” she asks.

Is that a real question? “Uh . . .”

“Go on,” Marisol nudges her. “You can’t avoid him forever. Go get it over with.”

Feeling resigned and numb, Rhea nods. It’s time to deliver the boss his dinner. It’s no big deal, she tells herself as she marches stone faced to Maul’s private quarters. The door opens as she arrives, as usual. But rather than striding in like normal, she hovers in the doorway. It’s like those first few months after she arrived at the compound. Back when she was nervous and curious to bring Maul his nightly meal. Never knowing if he would dismiss her or kiss her. Rhea now suppresses a sigh. They’ve come a long way from those days. 

Maul’s at his desk. Is he using work as an escape like she did? Is this his self-imposed cooling off period?

“I brought your dinner. I’ll leave it here,” she murmurs. She ventures forward to place the tray on a table while studiously avoiding eye contact. 

“Where’s yours?”

“I already ate. Goodnight.” She makes to leave. Well, sort of. Mostly, she lingers in the doorway. Uncertain what she wants to happen next. All she knows is that she hates how things are between them now.

Maul stands and crosses the room. “Stay. Keep me company.”

She doesn’t answer. She just keeps loitering in the doorway as he sits to eat. When the silence between them is almost painful, he speaks. “You’re feeling better?”

She answers honestly. “I’m trying not to think about it.”

“About what?”

“About any of it . . . about all of it . . .” That whole episode with Master Timmons was a dream come true before it became a nightmare in the skies over Alderaan. And it all somehow culminated today in Maul ordering her to kill a man. What’s worse, she did it.

What does that say about her? She’s not sure.

What does that say about Maul? A lot. Today has shown her a very disturbing side to her love. It reveals how truly warped Darth Sidious has made his original Apprentice. Like every Sith, Maul understands life in terms of power dynamics—who has power over who in each circumstance. There is always a Master and an Apprentice, or maybe a master and a servant, but either way the natural order of things has a privileged few blessed by birth with the Force making decisions for everyone else down the chain. It is the duty of the little people like her to show their respect and obedience while their overlords circle one another and plot for dominance. Now, every setting has a hierarchy and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. But the Sith take it to extremes. Crimson Dawn, Rhea rather belatedly realizes, provides Maul something approximating the pecking order he might have had as the Apprentice. For he controls all within his gang, including her.

Moreover, it is within those Master-Apprentice roles that Maul understands love. As the Master, he rewards and punishes. It’s for her own good in his mind, Rhea’s certain of it. Because that’s just what she suspects Sheev Palpatine told his young son every time he abused him and called it training. It was a remarkably effective technique. For decades later, Darth Sidious still has a stranglehold over the loyalty of his castoff pupil. 

That control, manipulation, and domination Darth Sidious called love. It put a nice word on some very ugly traits. And so, years later, stressed and upset Maul acts out those same behaviors with her. Because he loves her and he thinks on some level that this is what love does. That this is how love acts. Rhea doesn’t have the Force, but she’s the closest thing to an Apprentice Maul will ever have. And so, today he stepped into the Darth Sidious role while she played young Maul. 

She ought to be furious with him for that. But, in truth, Rhea is emotionally exhausted at this point. She can’t really muster the necessary outrage. Mostly, she feels profoundly sad for how victimized Maul truly is. What might that small boy taken in the night from his home have become had Darth Sidious never claimed him as a proxy son? She wonders. 

Maul is looking at her expectantly now, waiting for her to speak. But Rhea’s not looking to clear the air. She’s not up for that sort of conversation yet. She just sighs, “Please, I don't want to talk about it . . . I don’t want to argue.” Peace might be a lie for a Sith, but Rhea needs peace right now.

Maul seems to want peace too. He takes a drink and nods gravely. “It’s over.”

Not for her. But she agrees anyway. “Yes.”

“I think I’ve made my point. Let’s move on.”

“Okay.” Still, she can’t stop herself from beseeching, “If I make you angry again in the future, please don’t make me kill someone.” She doesn’t want someone else to suffer for her decisions.

He judges this a low risk. “You’re not the defiant type. It won’t happen again.”

“It might,” she plainly admits. With a deep breath, she boldly declares, “Maul, I still wouldn’t do anything differently.” Even now after seeing the worst of this man, she believes in the best of him. And she will risk all to help him, even if it means begging at the feet of Darth Vader. Or maybe someday, Darth Sidious.

Maul is quiet for a long moment. Does he regret today? She doesn’t think so. She thinks he regrets that he had to do it, but he would do it again. He feels like she feels about the confrontation with Vader, she suspects. 

“You made a big impression on Vader. I think it was part of why he let me go.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He wouldn’t fight me. I think he was never going to fight me. But when you showed up, it changed the dynamics. He’s not a merciful guy, but he was a Jedi. They’re impressed by offers of sacrifice.”

“Are you?” Does he understand that moment was motivated by equal parts fear and love? 

Maul looks away. “My mother died so that I could live. I’ve seen moments like that come to fruition. I don’t want that for you . . . or for me. I fight my own battles now, Rhea. You’ll only get yourself killed and it won’t accomplish anything. You’re no Mother Talzin.”

He looks over at her now and his face betrays all his years of pain and loss. “Vader is just an extension of Father’s will. Remember that. Enough people I love have died by Father’s command. I will not add you to that list.”

She nods and whispers, “I love you. I hate what you did today. But nothing about today changes my love.” She understands the Dark past and the gang dynamics that are the context for the scene on the landing pad. She alone understands that Maul is very much a victim even if he’s now the perpetrator too. For that is the twisted world of the Sith that he can’t seem to break free of. Plus, Rhea has never had any illusions about the violence of Crimson Dawn’s boss.

Maul digests her words and answers back solemnly. “I love you. Rhea, nothing you could ever do will change that.” 

It’s a sweeping statement of unconditional love, and she believes him. Because she’s seen how Maul continues to love the father who spurns him. Earn Darth Maul’s love and it is forever, whether that’s a good thing or not.

He stands and opens his arms now. Rhea rushes into them. Enough of this stilted conversation, she wants to feel strong arms around her. It’s been a horrible, confusing day but she is hopeful in their reconciliation. Because unlike the unforgiving father Darth Sidious, the wayward son Maul will pardon someone to heal the rift. That’s actually a big step forward for a man whose life has largely been defined by revenge.


	30. chapter 30

As he promised Rhea, Darth Plagueis arrives at Dathomir early the next morning. Maul is still smarting over the confrontation with Vader. It’s the last thing he wants to relive in detail. But there is no avoiding the Muun. So, he positions himself to advantage in his formal office and prepares for the uncomfortable interview. 

Mrs. Nettles soon appears. She announces his guest with appropriately grave aplomb. Then she limps out and the door slides closed behind her. He and Plagueis eyes one another in silence for a long moment. It’s how these meetings always commence. 

For once, the Muun actually looks happy to see him. Not that he will admit it, however. He drawls, “I see you’re still alive.”

  
  
“Was there any doubt? I’m a hard man to kill,” Maul brags. 

  
  
“Vader is too,” Plagueis reminds him. “I knew something momentous was happening when in the middle of the night my head started splitting from a disturbance. You two boys made quite a ruckus.”

  
  
“Woke you up?”

“Yes.” 

Plagueis might be grumpy, but he is pleased to know this. It’s confirmation that the Force recognized how momentous his meeting with Vader was. But Maul doesn’t let on. As always, he plays it cool.

“How’s Rhea?” Plagueis asks offhand.

“She’s fine.”

The Muun raises an eyebrow. “When I last saw her, she looked dreadful.”

“She’s fine.”

“I like that little Twi’lek. She’s definitely too good for you. And Bail says she is an excellent construction manager for Yavin. So if this lovers’ quarrel of yours is serious, then I’m leaving with her today. I don’t care how mad you are, you don’t get to kill her.”

He scowls. “I’m not going to kill her . . .”

“Really? Because she was a nervous wreck when I called her for an update. Lucky thing she answered. She was the proof of life you made us wait on.”

Sheepish Maul sneers back. “Were you missing me? Worried I was dead?”

  
  
“I didn’t know what that disturbance meant,” the Muun huffs. “Would it kill you to pick up a comlink now and then to check in?” He is grouchy as he complains, “You got arrested by Darth Vader and you didn’t think anyone needed to know? Bail and Mon Mothma were sweating bullets imagining your glorious martyrdom. Whereas I, knowing who you really are, was busy imagining all the secrets you could tell Darth Vader about us.”

  
  
“Were those your two choices? My death or a betrayal?”

  
  
Plagueis fixes him with a firm look. “Lord Maul, don’t take this the wrong way, but you are never going to kill Darth Vader.”

  
  
His eyes narrow at the diss. “So certain, are you?” he bristles.

Plagueis is flatly unequivocal. “Yes. So . . . he let you go?”  
  
  
Do they have to rehash his humiliation? Maul glares. 

  
  
Plagueis already knows the highlights. He summarizes, “Vader refused to fight and let you go. Was that before or after pretty Rhea offered herself in your place?”

Now, Maul glares and fumes. That particular aspect of the episode is still a sore point.

  
  
Plagueis knows it, too. For he needles him as he muses, “I don’t see it, but apparently you inspire a lot of female devotion. First your mother dies on your behalf and now your timid little girlfriend musters the resolve to attempt the same stunt. Does that make you love her more now that she has followed Mother Talzin’s vaunted example?”

He says nothing. 

Plagueis takes the hint and ceases the mocking tone. He is serious as he warns, “You must take care now that Vader knows of Rhea’s existence. He and my old Apprentice could use her against you.” 

  
  
Maul nods. This has been a risk all along. There were lots of downsides to Rhea’s actions on the _Executor_.

Plagueis moves on to the substance of the confrontation. “So Vader declined to ask about Bail’s Jedi smuggling?”

“I don’t think he cared that guy got away.”

“You think he’s grown bored with the Purge?”

Maul shrugs. “The Jedi are all but extinct. A few stragglers here and there won’t matter. For Vader, the Purge is probably only about one man at this point.”

“Kenobi?”

“Kenobi. Supposedly, Vader’s less interested in killing these days than he is in reviving someone. He wanted to know about the Nightsisters’ army of the dead.” Maul still finds that aspect of the episode completely befuddling. He asks Plagueis, “Who’s he trying to resurrect?” There had better not be some leftover Old Empire Sith lord Vader found in a tomb somewhere who he wants to wake up to be his new buddy. 

The old Muun appears genuinely clueless. “How should I know?”

“Maybe you will know soon. I sent him to you,” Maul reveals.

“Did you now?” Those sunken yellow eyes glitter at the news. “But of course, you did,” Plagueis purrs. “Trying to drive a wedge between Vader and my old Apprentice? Maul, you were always a sly one. Disciplined and smart, with plenty of Force, I always said.”

“He’s obsessed. He ignored the opportunity to bust Organa, kill me, and torture Rhea for secrets of the rebellion. Vader didn’t care about any of that. He only cared about the resurrection ritual. And then, when he learned the spell wasn’t permanent, he lost interest.” Maul recalls aloud now, “He was truly disappointed I couldn’t help him. I think I ruined his day,” he smirks.

The big Muun considers. “Very interesting.” There is the ghost of a smile about his crooked lips.

“Don’t be surprised if he comes looking for you.”

“Uhmm . . . yes,” the Muun agrees almost happily. “We will meet at some point. I have foreseen it.”

“It’s a good lure. He comes for you and then we kill him,” Maul plots.

“Nonsense. If he comes for me, I will welcome him and we will recruit him.”

What the Hell? “No.” Emphatically no. “No!”

Plagueis waves him off. “Oh, don’t start in on that Rule of Two garbage. It was a bad idea when Bane began it thousands of years ago. It’s hopefully flawed and old fashioned. We are modern men, Maul. Get with the times. The Jedi are dead, the Republic has toppled, and it’s old school Sith versus enlightened Sith now. The galaxy is big enough to keep a triumvirate of Sith lords busy. There will be more than enough glory to go around.”

Maul glowers stone faced at this declaration. None of this should be news, for the Muun has long envisioned a triumvirate to rule his Empire. Back when Maul was the Apprentice, that triumvirate was supposed to be the reclusive Darth Plagueis in the shadows, with Darth Sidious as the day-to-day figurehead, and himself as the Apprentice enforcer. The intervening years have changed things up a bit, and now the Muun wants to kick out Father and admit Vader to the inner circle. Where he himself fits in the pecking order is anyone’s guess, but Maul will be damned if he will report to Darth Vader.

Plagueis can clearly see how poorly his proposal sits. “Vader will join us or die. Is that a more preferable phrasing?” he wheedles.

Not really. Maul snarls back, “He won’t balance the Force for you. I asked him directly. He said he’s not the Chosen One.”

Plagueis frowns. “That is not for him to decide.”

“The rebels will never accept Vader!”

“They accepted you.”

“I haven’t been populating the nightly newsfeeds with firing squads and mass executions for years,” Maul points out. “Most of the good people of the galaxy have no idea what Crimson Dawn is or does. They’ve never seen my face and they don’t know my name.” That’s all a bit humiliating for an ambitious Sith to admit, but it’s true. For most of the galaxy’s citizens, he’s . . . well . . . obscure. “Vader is the most hated man in the galaxy. He’s the enemy, and you will never convince Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, or the rest of the rebels to the contrary.”

“Don’t be so rigid. He’s an ally in disguise.” Sith Master Darth Plagueis is, naturally, very malleable in his allegiance and he expects the same of everyone else. That’s part of the Muun’s genius—he can envision the impossible and the improbable and patiently bring it about. Darth Plagueis plays the long game, of that there is no doubt. But inserting the figurehead of the old regime into the leadership of the new one is not the break with the past that the rebels are looking for. Already, they’ll be in for a big surprise when their dream of democracy dies yet again.

Does Plagueis see how hotly he objects? The Muun shifts gears to make a pragmatic argument. “Who better to help us murder Sheev than his trusted Apprentice? We will use him to get our revenge.”

“I think Vader hates Father.” As far as Maul’s concerned, that’s just further evidence of how unworthy the guy is.

“Perfect,” the Muun declares. “Then he’s a good judge of character. Tell me, what is Lord Vader like? What should I expect when he turns up on my doorstop?”

Maul gripes, “You’ll hear him coming. That wheeze is loud. And the mask is ugly. Too many shiny sharp angles,” he huffs.

“For shame,” Plagueis chides. “You and I are not the ones to critique an infirmity. What is he like as a man?”

“Smug. Petty. Sarcastic.”

“Aren’t we all? What else?”

“Craven. Obnoxious. Insecure.”

“Got under his skin, did you?” the Muun chuckles. Deep set golden eyes slant his way as he observes tartly, “He certainly got under yours.”

“Vader is peevish,” Maul declares peevishly. 

Plagueis snorts. “So what you’re saying is that Vader will fit right in with you.”

Maul retorts hotly, “I’m nothing like him!” Thinking back, he adds somewhat bitterly, “Rhea was the one who threw him off his game.”

“Uhmmm . . . so Skywalker still likes the ladies . . . ”

Oh, come on. Maul folds his arms and scoffs, “He was a celibate Jedi monk. They weren’t known for romance.”

Plagueis grins. “Skywalker observed the Jedi Code mostly in the breach.”

“Really?” Maul would never have guessed that of Kenobi’s padawan. Obi-Wan Kenobi was such a straight arrow type. His archfoe was the veritable embodiment of every Light Side virtue. He has pretty much assumed that Skywalker was another version of his Jedi Master. Until he flipped Sith, that is.

Old Plagueis muses aloud, “You know, upon further reflection, if I had to guess who Vader wants to resurrect, I would lay odds it’s his dead wife.”

“Skywalker had a wife?” Maul gapes. The man’s getting more interesting by the moment and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Skywalker was a very bad Jedi,” Plagueis declares almost proudly. “Tell me more about him.”

“He didn’t cloak his imprint.”

“That’s odd. What does he feel like in the Force?”

“Like a teenaged boy,” Maul sniffs. “He’s all over the place emotionally. I was embarrassed for him, he was so transparent. The man has no focus.”

“Interesting.”

“He’s very conflicted.”

“About what?”

“About everything. He’s a hot mess under that helmet.”

“Poor boy.”

Plagueis is going too far with all this ally business. Maul growls, “I’ll put him out of his misery. We don’t need him to unseat Father.”

“Lord Maul, I forbid it.” The Muun’s feral yellow eyes flash at him. Is Plagueis claiming dibs for the killing? Or is he serious about this alliance? 

He reminds the exiled Sith, “I told the rebels I would kill him.”

“Who cares? Those are just words. Maul, if he could be turned, he would be a powerful ally.” And here comes another Rule of Two lecture. What Plagueis is missing—probably because he’s at the apex of his imagined future—is that the Rule of Two works because it limits the conflict. There are only two rivals, not three. Maul damn well isn’t sharing power with that Jedi Pretender. As far as he’s concerned, there can be only one Apprentice. 

So, he vows, “I’m killing him. He will die for refusing my challenge.” And for replacing him, and for humiliating him, and for causing trouble between him and Rhea. Vader’s going to die and Maul intends to relish the moment.

“I forbid you to kill Skywalker.” This time, the Muun speaks in a voice of steel with special emphasis in the Force. It’s an order plus a threat, and it sends a chill down Maul’s spine. He’s just been reminded of who’s the boss Sith in the room.

It’s a rare glimpse of the Dark mastermind who is Darth Plagueis the Wise. These days, the man cloaks his cunning behind a bon vivant lifestyle in exile and a team player facade to the rebels as their go-to financier. But Maul remembers the bygone days when Plagueis was the fearsome Sith Master who alternately terrified and impressed Father. The man has long been extremely careful about showing his cards and even more reticent to reveal his true power. But it’s there lurking. Maul is not fooled. He just saw a flash of it along with a flash of real temper. For some reason, the threat of killing Vader hit a nerve.

The moment passes as quickly as it arose. Plagueis is back to being his usual blithe, conversational self. He waves a breezy hand, advising, “If you need to kill to vent some Darkness, get rid of Ahsoka Tano. I tire of that woman living.”

“I am going to kill Vader,” Maul stubbornly digs in. He wants a crack at that coward when he doesn’t have an army to hide behind. 

Plagueis gives him a long, measuring look now.

Maul has to resist hard the urge to squirm. 

Yellow eyes lock with yellow eyes, and Maul does not back down. He holds his breath. Worried for what’s coming next. But unexpectedly, the Muun is the one to blink first in the battle of wills. 

Abruptly, Plagueis turns away and walks to the windows on the far side of the room. It’s a sudden change of demeanor and it has Maul concerned. Because is he about to get a taste of Plagueis’ Force lightning? 

The reclusive Muun was a very remote figure during his Apprentice days. Since Plagueis has resurfaced in recent years, they are sometime, arms’ length allies. Something like frenemies in the Force. But it’s all very ad hoc. Plagueis doesn’t call him Apprentice and Maul has been fine with their nebulous relationship. But that was before he understood the Muun’s plans to recruit Vader. Suddenly, Maul is threatened—very threatened—by the possibility that he will do the Muun’s dirty work and still end up sharing power with a rival. Had he known these plans at the outset, he never would have signed up with the rebellion. And that, of course, is probably why the Muun has neglected to mention it until now.

He’s long known not to trust Darth Plagueis the Wise. It’s why Maul never bothered trying to firm up any understanding about the future with his Master’s Master. Whatever the Muun might promise him could be true and then again, it might not. You get what you get with a Sith Master, and no amount of negotiation matters. He will give you only what your power merits at the time.

Is Plagueis about to make good on his earlier threat to establish dominance to make sure he gets his way? Maul girds himself for violence. It turns out to be a miscalculation. For Darth Plagueis doesn’t need violence to crush him. It turns out that all he needs are mere words. Because while a lie can hurt, nothing is more devastating than the unwelcome truth. 

It all starts very benignly. Ostensibly gazing out into the debris fields that surround the compound, Plagueis asks, “Do you remember much of this world? The way it used to be.”

  
It’s a complete non-sequitur that makes Maul squint. “Yes. That’s why it is my home.”

  
  
“What do you remember?”

  
  
“The coven.”

  
  
“Not the people. The Force.”

  
  
“The witches thought of the Force very differently than the Sith.”

  
  
“I know. Tell me.”

  
  
He looks away, glancing involuntarily out the window Plagueis stands before. His gaze finds the distant copse where the tree line of the coven forest begins. Maul suppresses a sigh and drops his eyes. “They’re gone. It doesn’t matter.”

  
  
Plagueis turns around to face him. “It matters. They mattered. That’s why they are dead. My old Apprentice knew that they mattered and so he sent Dooku and Grievous to wipe them out. Had they been irrelevant, they would still be alive.”

Was that last bit a veiled insult aimed at him? Maul grits his teeth and answers, “The witches didn’t have a concept of Light or Dark. For them, the Force was the Force.”

  
The Muun agrees. “That is how your mother could heal your mind and body with the Light and yet raise the dead with Darkness.”

  
  
“She wouldn’t have seen any distinction.”

  
  
“Yessss,” the Muun draws out the word for emphasis as he raises a finger. “Your mother, like her forebears, understood balance.”

  
  
“She wouldn't have called it balance. It was just the Force.” The coven trusted in the Force in all things, and used it as they saw fit. They made no apologies and promulgated no rules. The witches were the antithesis of the Jedi Order in that respect.

  
  
“What did it feel like? Tell me.”

  
  
He shrugs. “No different than anything else.”

  
  
“That can’t be true. I’m talking about before the war came to Dathomir . . . before Dooku. What do you remember from your childhood? What did the Force feel like back then?”

  
“I was a child.”  
  
“Surely you remember something from before your training,” the Muun cajoles.

  
  
Maul reflects a moment. “I remember that the Force was easy and effortless.”

  
  
“Uhmmm, yessss. You were strong from the very beginning. There was no awakening for you.”

  
  
“The Force was just there . . . always. I’m the back of my mind. It was an awareness of others, a sense   
like sight or smell or hearing. It wasn’t some idyllic peace like the Jedi teach. It was not some zen calm devoid of emotion. But it wasn’t raging conflict on the edge of hysteria like Darkness can be sometimes.”

“You, Maul, know better than most how risky Darkness can be. How it can consume.”

He grits his teeth. He hates to be reminded of his insanity, however obliquely. 

  
  
The Muun sounds sincere now as he laments, “I regret that I never came here back then. I would have liked to have felt that balance.”

  
  
Maul shoots him a pointed look. “Mother would not have accepted your crackpot theories.”

“She would have been the one doing the teaching,” Plagueis counters. “I think I could have learned a lot from Talzin. Back in the day, she was quite a mental tease. Did you know she tried to lure me?”

  
  
Maul looks up sharply. He’s never heard this story. It makes him alert for lies.

  
  
Plagueis notes his interest and continues. “She was a beacon in the Force, an irritant to my meditation. I was annoyed at the distraction. So, I sent my Apprentice in my place.”

  
  
“Father,” Maul breathes out, wary for where this tale is going. 

  
  
“Yes, I told Sheev to learn all he could from the witches. He learned a few tricks and he came home with you, but he entirely missed the larger experience. He missed the balance.” Plagueis shakes his head ruefully now. “I would have missed it too. I was a fully committed old style Sith back then. The mission for my Apprentice was defensive in nature. I told Sheev to investigate the witches to see if Mother Talzin’s claim was true.”

  
  
“What claim?”

  
  
“That she had the Chosen One.”

  
  
Maul scoffs, “Mother didn’t believe in that Jedi myth.”

  
  
The big Muun wags a reproving finger at him. “Do not dismiss it. It is a Sith myth as well.”

  
  
“There is no Sith’ari.”

  
  
“Oh, there is. The Sith’ari is one and the same with the Chosen One.”

  
  
Again, he scoffs. “It’s a fairytale. Even Vader agrees.”

  
“Plenty have believed it through the years, including my own Master Tenebrous. Lord Maul, there are universal stories embedded deep in the lore of different cultures. Stories of floods and fires that destroy and cleanse civilizations. Fables of the death and resurrection or rebirth of a savior figure. When disparate traditions all conceive of the same tale again and again down through the ages, there is a universal truth embedded somewhere in it.”

  
  
“Or it’s mass delusion,” he counters. “Stupid copycat folklore.”

  
  
Darth Plagueis now approaches closer. Uncomfortably close. Maul can see in detail all the damage Father inflicted on him decades ago. Hovering over him, the immortal Muun speaks softly. “She claimed it was you.”

“What?!” he chokes.

“Mother Talzin said she had the Chosen One. She claimed it was you.”

Maul’s heart skips a beat. Because those words are shocking, but they have the ring of truth. Alert to manipulation, he looks away and complains, “Are you done? Because it’s time for you to leave.”

  
  
But Darth Plagueis is just warming up. “I worried it was true. That the long awaited Chosen One come to balance the Force had indeed been born to the Mother Witch of Dathomir. It made a certain logic that the Chosen One would be neither Jedi nor Sith, but something far older and more primal . . . that he might be born into obscurity for safety’s sake until,” the Muun smirks, “his proud mother bragged about him to me.”

  
  
“Where did Mother learn that Jedi prophecy?” The coven kept to itself. 

  
  
“She learned it from a Jedi.”

  
  
“There were no Jedi here.”

  
  
“There was one who came to visit before you were born. A Jedi Master, in fact. His name was Dooku.”

  
  
Dooku? The Jedi turned Sith? This all sounds like a classic setup by a proto-Sith in the making. Maul glares back at Plagueis, wondering anew what the Hell this ancient history has to do with anything. Just a minute ago, they were arguing about killing Darth Vader. 

“I am not the Chosen One,” he grinds out.

  
  
“How do you know?”

  
  
Is that a serious question? “Look at me! Look at this!” he gestures to his mechanical lower half. “Does this look like a great hero sent to remake the Force??” Like Vader, he is more machine than man in many ways. The organic bits—those given life by the Force—can no longer sustain him on their own. That certainly doesn’t sound like the man who is the will of the Force incarnate. For life creates the Force and the Force creates life. Surely, that means the Sith’ari Chosen One won’t be a cyborg.

  
Plagueis looks him in the eye. “When I sent Sheev to Dathomir, I told him to kill you. But he had the idea to take you. To raise you Sith. Because he who controls the Chosen One controls it all.”

  
  
“Are you through??” Maul fumes. 

  
  
“At that time, I thought the Chosen One would be the greatest threat to my plans. Sheev argued that I couldn't kill you—that I shouldn’t attempt to kill you. But instead, I should corrupt the Chosen One to my viewpoint. To make an ally of an enemy.”

  
  
“I am not the Chosen One,” he grinds out.

“We didn’t know that at the time.”

Maul just stares. He’s a little speechless at what he’s hearing. This is a whole new twist on the backstory of his kidnapping from the coven.

  
  
“My Apprentice began with you. Later, he turned that same logic on Vader. He made Vader his Apprentice to control him. To neutralize the threat that young Jedi presented. Sheev wanted to cover all the possibilities . . . just in case . . .”

  
  
Maul sneers, “Go tell Vader this then. Maybe he’ll believe it.”

  
  
“It’s why Sheev won’t kill you. It’s why Sheev leaves you alone to your own devices. It’s not because he loves you. It’s because he fears Mother Talzin was right—that in time, you will be revealed to have been the Chosen One—the Sith’ari—all along.”

  
  
“I am not the Chosen One.” Maul can barely believe he’s saying those words out loud, let alone arguing about them.

  
But Plagueis seems to agree. “I know that now. But Sheev doesn’t. We can use that to our advantage   
going forward. He will hesitate to kill you, like he hesitates to kill Vader. That will make you both very effective weapons against him. If we work together, we can beat Lord Sidious and his retrograde views on the Force.”

Does Plagueis actually believe that he’s on board with this plan to work with Vader? Because he’s not. Not at all. Maul growls, “Don’t tempt me to betray you.”

Old Darth Plagueis is not slow on the uptake. He growls back, “Lord Maul, let me disabuse you lest you think this rebellion is the scheme you need to kill Vader and rejoin Sheev. You will never kill Lord Vader—the Force won’t let you . . . and neither will I.”

  
  
“Then what is the point of this rebellion?” he demands.

  
  
“To topple Sheev and rule in his place.”

  
  
“And Vader?”

  
  
“He will join us.”

  
  
“How can you be sure?” Maul cocks his head. “Let me guess—you have foreseen it?”

  
  
Plagueis is firm. “Lord Vader is the true Chosen One, begotten not made, one in being with the Force.   
Anakin Skywalker will balance the Force and we will be on the right side of history along with him. Lord Maul, you of all of us, should want balance. It is your heritage. Already, you show signs of the pull to the Light as your power matures to its fruition.”

  
  
“What does that mean—begotten, not made?” Mother has used the phrase to describe Vader. Maul has no idea what it means.

  
  
“It means Lord Vader was conceived by midichlorians, fathered by the Force itself but born of a woman. He was not sired like the rest of us.”

  
  
Maul’s eyes narrow. “Vader had no living father?”

  
  
“No. He was created.”

  
  
“Created?” Huh? Er . . . what? He squints. “You’re saying that Vader is a child of the Force?”

  
“Yes.” The Muun now proclaims with a straight face, “He is a demigod among us.”

  
  
It ought to be a laughable twist to an already preposterous tale, except Plagueis’ expression is absolutely serious. And so, Maul’s automatic snarky comeback dies on his lips. Instead, he demands, “How do you know?”

  
  
“Because I was the one to create him.”

“You? You??”

  
The Muun nods. He is a bit self-effacing now. “I wish I could say it was intentional. Like so many children, Darth Vader was a happy accident. Sheev and I were attempting a ritual to bolster our Darkness at the time. We went too far,” he admits. “The Force struck back at us—pushing for balance. All those midichlorians I was manipulating at the time did indeed manifest themselves. But instead of increasing my aegis, they became a child. New life born to destroy the Sith tradition I represented. Alas, I sowed the seeds of my own destruction.” 

The contrite Muun shakes his head ruefully as he recalls, “It was years before I understood what had happened. In some ways, it was the Force saving me from my own excesses. It was the wakeup call moment that I missed. But since I did not learn my lesson to temper my ambitions the first time, the next time the Force sent me punishment. It allowed my Apprentice to rise up in my place. Sheev took my Empire and ultimately, he took my boy.”

_My boy_. Maul swallows hard. 

“I think the Force worried at the time that I could not be trusted with him. First, the Force gave Skywalker to the Jedi for safekeeping. Then, it gave him to Sheev. To this day, I’ve never met him.”

Maul says nothing. He is speechless and appalled. This is a completely unforeseen, terrible development.

Old Plagueis seems oblivious to his visceral reaction He’s too absorbed with his own feelings. In a very uncharacteristic move, they spill out into the Force. The famously guarded Darth Plagueis’ thoughts betray him. And those thoughts are mostly . . . guilt. 

Guilt??

“So you see, Lord Maul,” Plagueis sighs, “I cannot let you kill Lord Vader. You and I are meant to help him to succeed. For my boy is the hope for us all.”

_My boy_. At those repeated words, a chill runs down Maul’s spine.

“There is room for all of us. We are each meant to contribute.” The Muun now fixes him with a pointed look. “You especially. For you alone among us has seen balance. Together we could be a formidable trio.”

Shaken Maul is still processing all this news real time. He never dreamed that this was the explanation behind his complicated relationships with Father and Plagueis. 

The Muun correctly reads his continued silence for alarm. He starts in on the reassurances now. “I need you on the team, Maul. You’re my rebel hero. And when the time comes, you will be the one to cut the deal with Vader to end the civil war we’re starting. Sheev will die, and you and Vader will be the peacemakers. We’ll blame all the excesses of the Empire on Sheev.”

As far as ‘join me’ moments go, this offer is a tepid one. Maul snarls back, “If Vader’s the Sith’ari, we’re both dead!” For the fabled Sith’ari destroys the Sith to make them stronger. That means the days of Darth Plagueis and Darth Maul are numbered if Vader’s really the fulfillment of the prophecy.

The Muun downplays the risk. “Vader’s not going to kill us. He can’t kill me.”

  
“Not all of us are immortal,” Maul gripes.

  
The zombie Sith brushes off his concern. “Don’t be so literal. The Sith’ari brings creative destruction, in the figurative sense. We three will jointly destroy the Sith as they have persisted in the tradition of Bane. We will usher in a new era of balance and a new concept of the Force. Once Sheev is out of the picture, there will be no one to stop us.”

Maul is unconvinced. The Muun is missing Darth Bane’s point entirely. Because three Sith is one Sith too many, and it’s far too many players to achieve some halcyon dream of balance. Doesn’t he get it?? Internal conflict was the undoing of the Old Sith Empire. So what makes him think this triumvirate idea will succeed?

“Balance is a dream. A lovely story that will never come true. Even if you achieve it, you won’t sustain it. History proves you wrong,” he asserts.

“History culminates in us,” Plagueis corrects him. It’s a pompous statement full of hubris. But then again, this is the man who plotted to topple the time-honored Galactic Republic. Darth Plagueis the Wise dares anything. And, incredibly, he seems to believe that he accidentally-on-purpose created the messiah. Because apparently, there’s no limit to this guy’s megalomania.

Maul turns away, clenching and unclenching his fists. Because as he starts thinking through all that he has heard today, his Darkness rises. Plagueis’ big pitch for the future comes with very unwelcome revelations. Moreover, Plagueis’ quest for power isn’t really about ruling the galaxy. He wants to rule the Force. And with the Jedi all but extinct, when Father is gone, there will be no one to stop him. That emo-wreck Vader certainly won’t do it. The wily Muun will be able to impose the balance ideas he’s so fond of by default.

Where does that leave him? He’s never been an adherent to those theories.

Plagueis sees his misgivings as well as his knee jerk reaction to anger. So, he eschews the hard sell. “Think it over,” he offers instead. “Maul, I like you and I value what you can do.”

He doesn’t reply. He just fumes in frustration.

As he remains silent, Plagueis continues his conciliatory words. “Like me, the Force has shown you the error of your ways. Take the lesson, Maul. Don’t go there again. Recognize the limits to Darkness. Find the balance of the Force.”

“Don’t lecture me on Darkness,” he hisses, feeling increasingly dismayed by the position he finds himself in. 

“Darkness is sometimes the answer. But it’s not always the answer. There is a role for the Light in the universe. A reformed Dark Sith like me, together with a Nightbrother of Dathomir, and a Jedi like Vader, can surely solve the riddle. We three represent all the recent traditions of the Force. A thousand generations live in us now.”

“Don’t lecture me on Darkness!” he hisses again. Shooting the Muun a look of pure Dark rage, Maul orders, “Get out! I’ve heard enough.”

Plagueis takes the hint and retreats far more gracefully than he expects. It leaves him alone at last to think through matters. And that is when he really starts to feel anxious. He simply did not see this coming. He knew Plagueis played the long game, but today’s truths put that in correct perspective. 

It turns out that Darth Plagueis has been waiting for his Force-son to grow up. First as a Jedi, then as a Sith. It explains why the Muun has stayed away in exile, biding his time for years while watching from afar. He hasn’t ceded the Empire to his upstart Apprentice. Instead, he’s been letting that upstart Apprentice train his son and give his kid some experience ruling the galaxy from the number two position. But Vader’s a man grown now. Well into his thirties. Has Plagueis been waiting to see if Vader will overthrow Sheev of his own accord? For Vader to prove his worth on his own without Plagueis’ meddling? Maul wonders. 

In any event, the Muun has clearly grown impatient because he’s planning the rebellion and reserving a spot for his Force-kid or whatever the relationship is called. Meanwhile, he himself has been recruited to be Plagueis’ unwitting errand boy. Darth Maul does the work so Darth Vader eventually can have some happy homecoming with Force-Daddy. Vader will go from being Apprentice to Sidious to being Apprentice to Plagueis. It’s a happy ending either way. For Maul has no doubts who will be the odd man out in the triumvirate Plagueis supposedly plots.

It’s very disheartening. But it also explains a great deal. The reason—probably the only reason—he himself has mattered all along is because he once was thought to be the Chosen One. But he’s not and everyone knows that now. Father lets him live just in case—he’s being held in reserve. But Plagueis uses him because—all Chosen One issues aside—he’s still capable. But capable can’t compete when your rival is some sort of fated prophet. That’s all a myth as far as Maul is concerned. But whether it’s true or not isn’t the point. Because Father and Plagueis both think it’s true and that’s what matters. It means regardless of whether Vader is the Chosen One, Vader’s the winner. Because the two reigning Sith Masters will fight for who holds his allegiance.

And him? Well, he’s the also-ran. The yeoman Sith who no one’s particularly impressed with. The guy who failed spectacularly on his first big mission. The one who fizzled fast after so much early promise. That predicament has made him especially ripe for manipulation. Crafty Plagueis, of course, pounced on him. Pretending that the comeback opportunity he dangled was real. And gullible reject that he is, he fell for it.

Maul now realizes that he’s the chump who builds and hides an army for Plagueis at considerable risk to himself and to his enterprise. He’s the fool who tells the rebel Senators he will kill Vader when, in fact, Plagueis forbids it. It’s no mystery now why the Muun wants Ahsoka Tano dead. She’s a reminder of Skywalker’s Jedi past and an impediment to Plagueis’ true plans. Because someone like Ahsoka Tano might sway the conflicted Skywalker back to his old religion. And then, Plagueis’ dream of balancing the Force will be subverted.

This is what the Sith do—they use and discard. Foolish young Maul thought he was inside the club, that he was one of the masterminds pulling the strings. But, in truth, he has never been more than a pawn. He didn’t know any better as a child. But he knows now. 

Suddenly, Maul understands that Rhea is right. Father will never take him back. Not as long as Vader lives. And with Plagueis on Vader’s side—he’s the Sith who can cheat death—Vader is definitely going to live. With a sinking heart, Maul realizes that no matter what he contributes to the rebellion, the best he can hope for is being a third wheel. Provided that Plagueis and Vader don’t find a convenient means to off him when it’s all over, of course. Because once they seize control of the galaxy, it will be time to consolidate power. 

Maul feels a little panicky now. A bit desperate. He’s sweating and his heart is pounding. Because the blinders are off and he sees how precarious his position is. How illusory his dream of a resurgence is. The best he can hope for is being number three. Maybe even a temporary number three. It’s better than being a crime lord, but still . . . It’s not what he wants. 

He has suffered disappointments before. The worst was Naboo, of course. Then there was Mandalore—twice. But this . . . this . . . THIS. This takes disappointment to an unprecedented level. Because on many levels, Maul realizes that he has been deluding himself.

He closes his eyes and gulps hard. He is every Dark emotion now. Rage, despair, resentment, fear, and hate. Oh, so much hate. The feelings surge within him. Momentarily overwhelming him until he clamps down and regains control. 

He feels so mistreated. So wronged. For he was stolen from the coven over what turns out to be a case of mistaken identity. Even had Naboo never happened, Maul is pretty certain now that he was destined to be dumped as the Apprentice the moment Vader surfaced. He was always fated to be the loser. 

Mother was right all along. She has kept trying to warn him about Vader. He brushed off her words as longstanding vitriol against Father. But he sees her wisdom now. Why did he ever doubt her? Mother has always been on his side.

Reeling, Maul immediately goes in search of comfort. That means Rhea. But when he stalks down the hallway to the conference room that she uses as an office, the door is open. Maul overhears Rhea deep in conversation about the base on Yavin. Just hearing the topic sets him off. That’s a problem because he needs to calm down. 

So reluctantly he retreats and seeks solace elsewhere. He heads outside into the Dathomir fields and begins walking towards the remains of the coven. It’s the home he was stolen from that the Sith ultimately destroyed. But it’s where he belonged all along. 

As he walks, he casts his mind back to his earliest years. To carefree days when he ran wild shirtless in the cool sun on legs that were organic. He was always with a pack of other children, for girls and boys mixed freely until they reached their teens at the coven. Back then, his special talent was turning cartwheels and flips to amuse and impress everyone. He was something of an impish showman, and he delighted in the attention. But he got plenty of attention. He was the Mother Witch’s firstborn son with the distinctive red skin color that marked him for a favorite of the Force. Mother had been so proud of him. Telling him always that he would do great things. 

But he hasn’t done great things. He wonders now if he missed his chance early on. Because the great thing had already been done at Dathomir—for according to Plagueis, the witches had managed to balance the Force. His young mind didn’t realize it at the time. That balance had been his status quo. But maybe that’s why the coven plays such a special role in his heart all these years later. Perhaps his longing for his lost people is more than nostalgia for his childhood. Could it be longing for the comfort of a small, fleeting place and time when all was right in the universe? 

Maul immediately thrusts those thoughts from his mind. They betray just how deeply that Muun has gotten into his psyche. He reminds himself that the Chosen One is a lie . . . the Sith’ari is a lie . . . balance is a lie, just like peace is a lie. Hell, even Vader thinks it’s all lies and he ought to know. Right??


	31. chapter 31

The next morning, Rhea is stuck on a comcall when she hears the ion engines of Darth Plagueis’ departing cruiser. It’s a good hour later before she can hang up and go in search of Maul for an update. He’s not in his office, or in a meeting, or in his private quarters. That must mean he has headed for his mother, Rhea surmises. That’s never a good sign. Worried for what the Muun might have said to already discouraged Maul, Rhea heads outside.

But even the long walk through the fields doesn’t reveal Maul. Rhea now stops on the edge of a grassy meadow, wondering if she should continue. She’s never ventured into the Dathomir woods before. No one enters except Maul. But he’s in there somewhere this morning, she knows. So, with a deep, fortifying breath, she keeps walking. 

Under the forest tree cover, the air is cool, thick, and humid. The ground beneath her feet is mushy. It makes for difficult footing. It’s more swamp than forest at some points. Thick, dank, and putrid. Amid all the quiet stillness, Rhea hears a distant, persistent sound. Could it be an animal? Maybe a birdcall? No, that’s a person. Warily, she walks towards the sound, worried it could be Maul.

Is a rancor about to jump out and swallow her whole? Maybe one of those wild boars she’s heard about will gore her instead? This adventure is not without danger. Rhea feels foolish now for having ventured this far without a weapon. But doggedly, she keeps walking. Maul might be in trouble.  
  


The men back at the compound say these woods are haunted. That’s true in some ways since the ghost of the Mother Witch appears here to Maul. But the real motivation for their warnings becomes evident as Rhea ventures farther. For the aftermath of a mass casualty battle is everywhere amid the forest undergrowth. It’s not just broken battle droids and rusty weapons poking out from leafy greenery. It’s human remains. This forest is a graveyard, she realizes with no small amount of trepidation. For propped at the base of trees and peeking out from beneath crunchy brown leaves are incomplete skeletons. Some have been disturbed by animals. But others are remarkably complete and partially preserved. Many even have bits of cloth, the remnants of leather boots and belts, and even jewelry showing. They are probably Nightsisters who died protecting their coven, she decides. The Separatists must have left them here without the dignity of a burial or cremation. 

  
Trembling Rhea murmurs “May the Force be with you” again and again as she passes yet another anonymous lost soul. It’s all she can think of to say as she picks her way past. It’s very ghoulish at times, but she persists. Because the most frightening aspect of these woods isn’t the silent dead. It’s the hollering voice from afar that she can now clearly tell is Maul.

Glancing down at yet another body, Rhea recalls how she had initially been frightened by the battle wreckage that mars this planet’s natural landscape. She had been perplexed at why Maul allows it to remain. ‘It’s not over,’ had been his answer at the time. Only once she learned Maul’s complicated history did Rhea understand the truth of his statement. 

  
  
In time, she would perceive how conflicted he is over what happened to his people. For it was the work of the Sith, done at the behest of the man Maul still calls Father. And that’s partly why it’s not over. Because whether there will be a future reckoning for Darth Sidious or a reconciliation with his castoff son, right now, at least, things remain unfinished.

  
That’s the emotional limbo Maul has been in for years now. Dathomir remains, but the witches are gone. Maul is all that is left of their tradition and even he is more Sith than Nightbrother. But Maul is still his mother’s son despite all Darth Sidious’ manipulations. And so, this death and devastation might not be his responsibility, but it is his bitter inheritance. This forest is the birthplace Maul returns to time and again. Because for comfort, for healing, or for wise counsel and good advice, we all return home to those who have known us the longest and the best. For Maul Oppress of Darthomir, that means Mother Talzin. Rhea knows he communes with her in this forest at the ruins of her coven grotto.

  
But where is that? Rhea keeps walking, blindly hoping she isn’t lost. This far into the forest she begins to pass the ruins of structures now. Were these houses? Maybe workspaces? They are situated in what must have once been large forest glades. But the organic world has since crept to reclaim the clearings. Bright green moss now grows over piles of broken bricks, and lacy ferns and young saplings have taken root where Nightsisters once lived. 

As Rhea looks around, Maul’s words echo in her mind: _life creates the Force and makes it grow_. Life here has changed since the war. An entire people were wiped out. But from all that death and decay, new and different life has emerged. For despite the best efforts of Grievous and Dooku, the Force is still with Dathomir. It makes her glad.

Yes, this must be the right way. For there are more ruins than trees now. Clearly, this was once a vibrant, sprawling community. Where would the Mother Witch’s grotto be? In the center of it all, Rhea guesses as she nearly trips over yet another battle droid. And sure enough, thirty more meters brings her to her destination.

  
  
Many civilizations put their holy temples on high, with flights of stairs and lofty columns that stretch towards the heavens. The architecture underscores the special nature of the proceedings there. For these places are not for the work of everyday life, but for the work of divine revelation. The witches, however, defied these customs. To enter their center of civic authority, you descend down deeper into their forest world. Closer to the earth from which they drew their inspiration and their power. Thus, the steps go down, not up, at Dathomir. But the footing is treacherous, as Rhea soon learns as she slips and slides repeatedly in the muck. 

She finds herself in what looks to be a central plaza of sorts vaguely in the shape of a pentagram. It must have been landscaped in a terraced design at one point. But like the rest of the Nightsisters’ realm, it is overgrown today. The sense of decay and defeat is especially strong here among the moldering ruins. It is unnerving, as is the sound of Maul’s anguish. She has come to the right place, for he is very close now. 

Rhea follows his voice into what must have been an inner sanctum. Like the rest of the village, it is an open-air structure that shows fading signs of its former grace and beauty. But Rhea’s eyes pass over all that to rest on Maul. He must know she’s here through the Force, but he ignores her. He’s too immersed in his pain. Listening to his heated words, Rhea immediately realizes that whatever Darth Plagueis told Maul, it was very bad news. And from the looks of him, it has sent Maul into a spiral of self-doubt and despair. The man looks terrible.

“Why didn’t you tell me? W-Why??” The question is not for her, it’s for someone else. Someone who’s not there. For looking around, Rhea sees no one but herself and Maul. They are alone . . . she thinks.

Does she belong here? Rhea feels like an interloper. She’s an off-worlder Twi’lek who’s dead to the Force. She’s nothing that would impress a Nightsister. But she loves Maul and she wears his markings on her back. So, she tells herself it’s okay for her to be here. She’s family. 

“W-Why??” 

Maul’s face is as intense as she has ever seen. He appears distraught. It’s uncomfortable to watch. Rhea wants to run to him, to comfort him, but she stands rooted to the spot. Intimidated both by the setting and by the argument he is apparently having with someone who isn’t there. 

He’s not gone crazy again, has he? Rhea gulps. No, of course not. What is she thinking?

  
“Why didn’t you tell me? You told me Darth Sidious betrayed you and ran off with me!” 

Yet again, Rhea peers into the dimness, looking to find the person who is the other side of this aggrieved confrontation. But there is no one else present. Maul must be speaking with his Mother, shaky Rhea hopes. This must be the Force at work. But all Rhea can see is empty space and a faint greenish mist that twirls and swirls while the rest of the air is stagnant.

  
“Yes, it’s true, but not the whole truth! Why didn’t you tell me why he wanted me?” 

Maul’s shoulders rise and fall fast as he heaves down air. Are those tears she spies glittering on his cheeks? Could it be perspiration? She can’t be sure. But whether their cause is emotional or physical, Maul looks utterly spent.

“Why? Why?” he wails. But seconds later Maul is raging again. “I don’t want to hear about Vader! Everyone wants to warn me about Vader! I’ve met Vader—he’s a mess! If he’s the Chosen One, the galaxy doesn’t have a chance! The guy has no concept of subtlety or nuance! He will never balance the Force!”

This is not the cool, calm, often taciturn leader of Crimson Dawn. This agitated man is equal parts angry and sad. Even in the dim light, Rhea can see those yellow eyes flashing from across the room. Their intensity keeps her silent on the sidelines.  
  
“Is it true—did the witches balance the Force? Tell me! TELL ME!”

Rhea isn’t following the gist. She doesn’t know much lore of the Force and she’s far too focused on Maul’s mental state. She’s never seen him so uncontrolled and loud. It’s very unlike his usual demeanor.

“I was a child! I didn’t know anything else! How was I supposed to know?? Mother, you left me with him. I will never forgive you for that! NEVER!”

There it is—the confirmation of who Maul confronts. Does Mother Talzin know she’s here too? Can she see her in the Force? For all Rhea knows, the souls of all the lost Nightsisters watch her unseen now. If they are here, Rhea hopes they can sense how much she cares. How wronged she feels on their behalf. How much Rhea herself hates the Separatist Army that killed her family and ruined her face. Rhea places the blame where she places all the blame for the war and its many lasting consequences: on the treacherous and deceptive Darth Sidious. He’s the man who stole Maul and ruined his life.  
  
“Where do I go from here?” 

The response Maul hears is clearly unsatisfactory.  
  
“What do I do? Tell me! You have all the answers, so tell me!”

Rhea just stands there. Wringing her hands while Maul paces and shakes his fist at nothing.

“You caused this! I blame you! I blame you! Why did you let him keep me? Why??” Maul is raving now. “I trusted you! I loved you!”

Rhea winces at the raw emotion. 

“What kind of mother does that to her son? Answer me!”

Maul falls silent as he listens stone faced to the unheard reply. Seconds later he is irate once more. “You know I know that. But that doesn’t change a thing! You still abandoned me to him! This is all your fault! My life is your fault!” he accuses hotly. “So was Savage’s!” he adds.

Maul’s voice has never been strong. This is a man who whispers far more than he hollers. He’s a tenor naturally, not a bass. But with this latest rant, his hoarse voice cracks. He sounds as broken now as he looks. 

As he drags a hand across his face, Rhea dares to speak up. “Are you alright?”

He looks away. 

“Are you alright?”

“N-No . . . ” 

He takes two steps backwards and finds himself up against a wall. That sets him off. Maul whirls, grabs for the long saber mounted at his waist, ignites it, and begins hacking away. The ruins crumble and smolder beneath the brunt of his repeated swings. Sparks fly as his twin swords become a twirling red blur. But the violence is brief. Maul extinguishes his weapon and stands surveying his handiwork. Looking exhausted, he props himself against a solid portion of the still-standing wall. He stands there a moment, head tilted back and eyes closed, before he begins a slow slide down. Maul ends up with his elbows propped up on his raised knees and his head bowed. His weapon is cast to the side on the dirt floor.

Concerned, Rhea crosses the room to kneel at his side. “I’m here,” she murmurs, wondering aloud, “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you hurt? Tell me.”

Maul looks at her for the first time. “Little one . . . “ he breathes out as she snakes an arm around him. “You came . . . “

“I’m here,” she nods as she looks him over up close. The violence seems to have helped. Maul is in control again now following the outburst. He’s back to being his calm self. Not wanting to press, she waits for him to speak. But as she settles down beside him in the dirt, Rhea has to lean in close to hear. Maul’s voice is a choked rasp made all the more soft by his obvious fatigue and emotional overload. 

What frustration has provoked this Dark tantrum? It’s a long and twisting tale of lust for power and unbridled ambition. Rhea hears the story of how the Sith Master Darth Plagueis sent his then Senator Apprentice Darth Sidious to Dathomir to investigate Mother Talzin’s claims that her little son was the Chosen One. For finally, after many years barren and countless prayers to the Force, a son was born unto the Mother Witch of the ancient coven. He was a precocious little Zabrak boy, marked with the rare ruddy skin tone of a favorite the Force. His mother was certain he was the long-foretold savior of us all. She had foreseen his future. This little Nightbrother was destined to leave his insular homeworld to take his place at the seat of galactic power at the helm of a great empire. He might be born into obscurity in the Rim, but in time this unassuming boy would rise to greatness. 

The Sith took notice. Darth Plagueis sent his Apprentice to kill the boy. To remove the threat to their plans before he could mature to adulthood. But Darth Sidious was already a rebellious and somewhat unreliable Apprentice. Even back then, he didn’t like to follow orders. So instead of killing the boy, he stole him to raise as his own. 

You see, the Apprentice believed the Mother Witch’s claims. He too thought the little Nightbrother showed great promise. . . that he might indeed be the Chosen One. And if so, then that boy was just what the Apprentice Darth Sidious needed to overthrow his hated Sith Master, a man who claimed to be immortal. There was no way to be sure of that boast short of attempting to kill Darth Plagueis, which Darth Sidious wasn’t brave enough to do yet. So he sold his Master on a plot to subvert the Force by raising the Chosen One as a Sith ally. Darth Sidious convinced Darth Plagueis to let him take the Mother Witch’s boy as his own Apprentice. But all the while, he intended that the child grow in knowledge and power so that one day the kid would be the one to attempt to kill the immortal Darth Plagueis. Just in case he succeeded, Darth Sidious needed the boy to be loyal. So, he was as insidious as his name suggests and told the kid he loved him.

That boy grew up aware that he had great expectations but unaware of why. He was mostly ignored by Darth Plagueis but alternately abused and adored by Darth Sidious. The situation persisted into the boy’s early adulthood, through rigorous training and education. Then, it all came to an abrupt halt at the Battle of Naboo. 

The boy failed at his mission. He was presumed dead for a time. But Darth Sidious knew better. He knew through the Force that his adopted son survived. But since the boy had been revealed to be fallible, he clearly couldn’t be the Chosen One. The Mother Witch had lied to him. Determined not to waste further effort on the kid, Darth Sidious immediately transferred his attention and his affections to the newest Force wunderkind. He set his sights on a promising Jedi boy who came to light amid the Battle of Naboo. Darth Sidious would lure and groom this new boy for years to replace the first son he dumped. 

But the early promise of the Mother Witch’s son had Darth Sidious a little worried. Could his first Apprentice still be the Chosen One? Wary Darth Sidious took the opportunity to destroy the Dathomir coven lest any further Force-strong potential enemies arise from there. It was also something of a personal vendetta. He and the Mother Witch had a past and he was settling a score. But in the end, Mother Talzin would sacrifice her life so that her son could live. She believed until the end that her boy was something truly special. And that was so unsettling to Darth Sidious that he continued to let his former Apprentice live.

But with the former Apprentice now a crippled man gone insane and marooned in the middle of nowhere for years, Darth Sidious had to do his own dirty work. There was no magical kid to kill Darth Plagueis for him. So Darth Sidious stoked his power, gathered his nerve, and struck one night. A furious battle ensued. Darth Sidious thought he won. But he couldn’t be sure because as he struck the mortal blow, Darth Plagueis warned ‘Strike me down and I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.’ Now the Muun Sith was known to be a bit grandiose, but still . . . those words haunted Darth Sidious. He was right to be worried because after Darth Plagueis died, he rose again. The Sith Master was indeed immortal, like he had claimed all along.

But that was hard to tell because in his Dark Sith heyday, Darth Plagueis engaged in any number of zany, weird rituals designed to increase his power. Most of them seemed to be a bust. But one turned out to be a spectacular failure because it provoked the Force to strike back at the megalomaniac Sith Master who proclaimed that he was a Dark god. The Force had finally had enough of that overpowered Muun and so it birthed its only begotten son into the universe as payback. The boy was both the Jedi Chosen One sent to balance the Force, and also the Sith’ari Dark lord who would destroy the Sith. But basically, this new kid was the embodiment of karma, a means for the angry Force to punish Darth Plagueis for his gargantuan hubris. The clueless kid Anakin Skywalker was born an obscure slave boy on a backwater Rim system. It was not a coincidence that first the Jedi and then the Sith found him. Skywalker’s whole life would be shaped by the forces of Light and Dark surrounding him.

Meanwhile Darth Plagueis hung back in the shadows. The chastised Muun had gotten religion from his near-death experience and now he wasn’t quite so Dark. He had a new goal—to balance the Force—which basically meant he wanted to rule both the Light and the Dark. Plagueis still craved power, he just understood it differently now. His solution was to destroy the Jedi, to destroy the Sith, and to anoint himself in charge of the Force. 

Darth Plagueis watched as Darth Sidious executed Plagueis’ own plan to topple the Republic. He watched as Skywalker—now the young Darth Vader--systematically destroyed the Jedi Order. Basically, Plagueis let others pummel the Light Side for him, fearful that were he to do it himself, the Force might once again strike back at him. But with the Light Side in full retreat, Darth Plagueis next hatched a plan to destroy the Dark Side in the name of balance. Conveniently, it would also be effective revenge against his upstart Apprentice Darth Sidious. And so, Plagueis set to work organizing a rebellion. For help, he turned to that gullible, needy Mother Witch’s son who was still hanging around on the fringes of the galaxy.

And that’s the current power play afoot. The Sith iconoclast Darth Plagueis plots to unseat Darth Sidious and to claim Darth Vader as his preposterously called ‘Force son,’ all with an eye towards the pretext of balance. For his part, Darth Sidious wants to retain his position and his dominance over Darth Vader to prevent the Chosen One from fulfilling his destiny. The Chosen One is the key to it all, Maul tells Rhea. For he who controls the Chosen One controls the Force and the galaxy. That means Darth Vader is who matters, Maul sighs glumly. Not me . . . it was never me . . . Mother was mistaken.

I’ll never be the Apprentice to either Father or Plagueis. Vader gets that job. I can’t compete. For who can top the Chosen One? No matter what he does, Maul is certain he will be the loser. He feels very used and completely demoralized. He blames his Father, he blames his Mother, and he blames Darth Plagueis. For they each raised his hopes only to dash them. Maul bemoans that he is nothing and he was always going to be nothing . . . thanks to the existence of Vader. 

Rhea hates to see him so diminished. Alarmed, she sputters, “Go to your father—tell him all of this!”

Yellow eyes dart her way. “I thought you wanted to topple Father.”

“I do—it’s just—just—that I want you to be happy too. And if being his Apprentice again will make you happy then, okay . . . it’s okay,” she gulps. 

But Maul shakes his head. “Father already knows. He knows Vader’s the Chosen One.”

“But does he know Plagueis is Vader’s father?”

“I don’t know. He might be happy about that. He made his hated Master’s son his slave.” 

“Does your Father even know Plagueis is alive?”

“Very likely. That kind of power is hard to hide. But whether it’s Father or Plagueis on top, I won’t be the Apprentice. So as long as Vader is around, why would you want me?” 

Miserable Maul looks away and grimaces. “I should never have been raised Sith. I should not have been trained for a life I never got to live. Better to die here with the rest of the coven as an ordinary Nightbrother.”

“Don’t say that!” she yelps. “Maul, you are feared and admired. You run the gang—”

“I am nothing,” he spits out his words. “Just a criminal with a lightsaber. If I were Vader, I wouldn’t fight me either.”

After that wildly emotional scene in the forest, Maul withdraws. He doesn’t speak about the future, the Sith, or the rebellion. In fact, he barely speaks at all. Rhea doesn’t press. She gives him space to make peace with his disappointment. 

As children, we are told that we can be anything we want to be. That if we try hard enough, we will succeed. It’s a lesson to encourage ambition and reward hard work. Pay your dues, and everything will be alright, we are assured. Except that’s not the reality for many achievements. It’s a plain fact that many of us will never become elite athletes no matter how much we practice. The same is true for any number of careers that require you to be born with certain attributes. For there are plenty of aspirations you simply cannot be taught. Those dreams belong to a lucky few born with the requisite aptitude. But for almost any area of achievement, reaching the uppermost pinnacle is hard. Whether it’s business, academia, entertainment, or politics, there is room for only so many stars. That means the vast majority of us are losers to some degree. 

But when it comes to the lords of the Sith, there are only two spots: the Master and the Apprentice. Neither of them will ever be Maul, based on the revelations from Darth Plagueis. The Rule of Two will be Vader as Apprentice, regardless of who the Master is. For Maul, it is a very bitter pill to swallow. The dream of reclaiming his position has persisted decades and it dies hard now. The sense of loss is enormous. Trying to be sensitive, Rhea resolves to let Maul have as much time as he needs to regroup.

Unfortunately, she has bad news of her own to share. Dantooine is indeed compromised thanks to the embezzling local guy. The rebels abandon the base immediately, taking everything they can load up in five Crimson Dawn freighters. Rhea wants to move it all back to the armory on Lothal, but Maul countermands her. Ship it to Yavin, he orders. It’s close enough to completion to store it there for now. 

She doesn’t realize it at the time, but it is the first indication that Maul is pulling back from his role in the rebellion. Maybe that should be the obvious next step, but Rhea herself is in far too deep with the rebels to see it. In fact, she keeps working away on the Yavin base while Maul mopes around.

When it’s gone on a few weeks, Rhea gets concerned. Let’s go to Canto Bight, she suggests. It will be fun. But Maul isn’t interested in anything any longer. He does the bare minimum of work for the gang. Most tasks he delegates to Uli, even matters not involving the Hutts. He doesn’t swing his sword much either. Typically, Maul is a very vigorous man despite his disability, spending an hour a day in his training room. But not lately. When Rhea asks about it, he tells her there’s no one to fight if Vader won’t fight him. So why practice? 

Trying to be supportive, Rhea endeavors to be patient. But listless, moody Maul is no fun. His disengagement also makes for a lot of downtime. Boring, silent, brooding downtime. She doesn’t dare turn on the holonet for fear that they will see one of the Empire’s periodic newsfeed interruptions showing the Emperor or Vader. Rhea, like everyone else at the compound, walks on eggshells.

Now, the boss of Crimson Dawn has long been known to be a moody guy. So for a while, no one other than Rhea thinks anything is amiss. They give Maul a wide berth and go about their business. But soon the gang’s leaders start following Uli’s example by coming to Rhea as gatekeeper. They ask ‘How is he today?’ and ‘Is he working?’ Rhea quickly becomes a messenger and a go-between, asking for instructions and running proposals by Maul on others’ behalf. As that habit takes hold and lingers, it allows Maul to insulate himself and withdraw even further. 

Rhea tries to cheer him up. But he doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t seem to want company either. He rebuffs her efforts at affection. He has no interest in sex. Rhea doesn’t press. But she does start to nag at him to eat regularly and to shower. Maul’s normally a fastidious, routine oriented guy. But now that the normal structure of his day has relaxed, everything seems to fall by the wayside. He spends hours meditating. Sometimes he walks alone in the fields. But mostly he mopes and broods. Rhea catches him time and again with his face buried in his hands. The posture makes her ache for him. 

It’s hard to watch someone you love sink into depression. Rhea soon learns that there is very little you can do to alleviate someone else’s despair. All she can do is be present. To be a smiling face and a cheerful voice. But even that gets hard as Maul retreats into long periods of silence. She can’t tell if he’s so deep in meditation that he doesn’t hear her or if he’s simply ignoring her. But overtime, it becomes frustrating. She grows resentful.

Rhea starts speaking up more assertively. It’s less ‘Would you like to eat?’ and ‘Cook made your favorites’ and more ‘Here’s your dinner. Eat something.’ That becomes ‘You need to take a shower’ and ‘You need to answer Uli’s messages’ and ‘You slept in those clothes, didn’t you?’ Maul’s terse answer—when he answers—is that he’s busy thinking. But one night when they are both a bit exasperated, his answer is a brief, hard restriction to her throat. 

Rhea gasps. It’s more from shock than true inability to breathe. She stands there one hand to her neck in disbelief.

Maul reacts fast. He leaps up and yelps, “I’m sorry!”

She doesn’t know what to say. For all Maul’s threats, she never, ever thought he would actually harm her.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again!” he promises. And now, the weeks long dammed up floodgates of emotion open. Maul is at her side, enveloping her in his arms as he pleads, “Don’t leave me—you can’t leave me—I will never let you leave me—“ The words come out between muffled sniffs and sobs as the man brave enough to challenge Vader dissolves into tears. 

Rhea has long known that beneath Maul’s gruff exterior and cold Sith posturing lies a man in full. A man with the full range of emotions from love to hate, from happiness to despair, from laughter to tears. If he had been raised Jedi, he would have been conditioned from birth to suppress those feelings. But instead, Maul was raised Sith and he was taught to channel them into power and express them through violence. It takes incredible discipline for him to just feel, she knows. 

And so, instantly she forgives. She knows it’s a mistake, but she does it anyway. These are their respective roles now. He is withdrawn and sullen, erupting randomly at the slightest provocation. Her job is to insulate others and to placate him. But that also makes her the messenger and today he was willing to shoot the messenger. Still, out of pity and love, she forgives him anyway. Actually, it had felt good to get a genuine response from Maul. His arms feel good around her, too. It’s been weeks since they have touched for more than an incidental brush of the hand. And so, on some level, Rhea can rationalize the aftermath of abuse as affection. 

Still, she has the presence of mind to announce, “You need to stop thinking. You need to make some decisions and move on.” This has gone on long enough. His depression is ruining their relationship.

Maul takes that advice to heart. Because the very next day, he marches into her office to interrupt a construction update to the rebel high command. As Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, Raddus, and Major Draven look on, Maul informs everyone that she has been reassigned off the Yavin project. Effective immediately, she will no longer be assisting the rebellion, he announces.

Straight talking Raddus speaks first. “You owe me at least five comcalls and twenty messages, Maul. What’s going on with you? What has prompted this silent treatment? I can’t get a response from you for weeks and today you show up to tell us you’re taking back Rhea? We need her and you know it. Now that Dantooine’s a bust, we need her to set up a new training base.”

“She works for me,” Maul counters curtly. “I am deploying her elsewhere. I have a business to run.”

Next, Maul turns to her and orders all the stockpiled rebel munitions stored at Crimson Dawn facilities to be transferred to the Yavin base. With the Dantooine base easily identifiable as Crimson Dawn, he doesn’t want munitions found at his locations if the Empire comes looking. 

It’s a reasonable decision, but Rhea is worried it signals a larger pullback. Her fears are stoked when the other rebel leaders start asking more pointed questions and Maul simply walks out. It’s rude and dismissive. When everyone looks to her for an explanation, Rhea has none. She is red faced and embarrassed.

“What is going on?” she demands of Maul hotly when they are in private. “Now, you’re making me quit the rebellion?”

“You’re Crimson Dawn. You work for me. I’m done helping Plagueis. I refuse to be number three!”

“The only way you will bring your father to justice—to get your revenge—is to unseat him. If power is what he loves best, then take it from him! And for that, you need to help the rebellion!”

“Helping the rebellion is helping Plagueis. I’m done helping Plagueis. Get his army out of my warehouses immediately. You’re through dabbling in treason. This is over! For you and for me.”

“Maul, you can’t quit—we’ve come too far to back out now--”

But he’s in no mood to argue. Maul grabs her wrist and points to the gang tattoo. “This means you work for me! As of now, you’re my housemaid again. I will not let you throw your life away for the ambitions of the Sith like I did! Vader already knows who you are to me. That’s danger enough!”

Danger has never stopped this man from doing anything. So Rhea is pretty certain that danger is not what’s prompting this decision. She huffs, “You’re quitting and that means I have to quit too?”

“Yes. We’re a team.”

“But Maul—"

He shoots her a warning glare that puts her in her place. Rhea lowers her eyes and lowers her voice immediately. “Yes, Sir,” she replies even though her heart is mutinous. Maul knows it too, thanks to the Force.

He looks away and mutters, “I’ll make it up to you . . . “ as if that is some kind of consolation. 

Maul knows better than anyone how much time and effort she has put into the rebellion. And he knows how personally committed she feels about thwarting his father. She’s doing it in memory of her lost family and all the others who have suffered for the machinations of Darth Sidious. She’s doing for Maul as well. So that he can chart his own path to personal redemption, whatever that looks like. Rhea’s no Jedi. She doesn’t need Maul to turn to the Light Side. But she wants him to make peace with his past. And also, hopefully, to use his special talents for the good of the galaxy. So what if that means making peace with Darth Vader in the long run? If Maul can thrive in the Galactic Underworld, perpetually caught between the scheming Hutts and the backstabbing Pikes, surely he can handle Vader? And what’s so great about being the Apprentice anyway?

And so, disgruntled Rhea takes matters into her own hands. She decides to enlist help to sway Maul back to the rebellion. She doesn’t go to the rebel leadership he often disdains or to Darth Plagueis he distrusts. Instead, she goes to someone Maul respects and once tried to recruit as his own ally: Ahsoka Tano. 

Rhea uses the excuse of overseeing the movement of munitions out of Lothal to stage a meeting. She is waiting on the landing pad when the Togruta Jedi-turned-rebel-operative jumps gracefully down from the small fighter craft she’s arrived on.

“You asked to see me?” Ahsoka Tano calls as she walks up. 

“That’s right,” Rhea nods, doing her best to appear friendly. She doesn’t like this woman and she knows the feeling is mutual. “Thank you for coming,” Rhea adds stiffly.

The Jedi gets right to the point. “Why am I here?”

“I need your help. Well, really, it’s Maul. Maul needs your help.”

“I heard he quit. They’re keeping it hushed up, but I heard it anyway. Is it true?"

"Yes. Well, basically,” she hedges. “I’m not sure it’s official yet.” Every time she tries to talk to Maul about the rebellion, he brushes her off.

“Why did he quit?”

Rhea sighs. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.” The orange skinned Togruta puts her hands on her hips in one of those power stances she does so effortlessly.

It makes Rhea feel diminished by comparison. She starts babbling nervously. “He doesn’t know you’re here. He’ll be angry when he learns we met.”

The Jedi raises an eyebrow. “What’s so important that you’re risking upsetting your Sith lord boss boyfriend?”

“Lady Tano—“

“Call me Ahsoka.”

“Ahsoka—“

“Wait--your face,” the Jedi interrupts yet again. She walks forward to peer at Rhea as she belatedly perceives the physical transformation. “You fixed your face? Wow. You sure did . . . it looks amazing . . . “

Rhea raises a self-conscious hand to her cheek out of habit. “Yeah. He fixed it. Well, Maul got a Jedi healer to fix it . . . “

“A Sith lord convinced a Jedi to heal his girlfriend’s face?”

“Yes.” 

A truncated version of the story comes out now. How Maul found a Jedi healer when he was searching for Jedi for clues to Kenobi’s whereabouts. How Maul insisted that Master Timmons heal her instead of himself. How the trip to Alderaan to deliver him to Bail Organa seemed to go just fine until Darth Vader showed up. And then . . . how the confrontation—which Rhea didn't get to witness—resulted in Maul spiraling down into hopelessness. Rhea omits the crucial details about Darth Plagueis and his plot to lure Vader and to balance the Force. She just explains that Vader had been contemptuous and dismissive of Maul. She awkwardly reveals that it has given him a crisis of confidence which has him pulling back from the rebellion. And that’s at least partly true.

The Togruta digests the information. “This isn’t like Maul. That guy’s not a quitter. He’s been hunting Kenobi for decades now.”

“Maul’s not a quitter,” Rhea agrees emphatically. “But that meeting with Vader . . . it got him really discouraged . . .”

“He’s not someone who’s easily discouraged either,” the Jedi points out. “He tried not once, but twice, to take over Mandalore.”

“Yes!” Rhea agrees again. “This all has me very worried,” she confesses. “It’s abrupt and out of character . . .”

“He hasn’t gone crazy again, has he?”

“No! At least,” miserable Rhea gulps, “I don’t think so . . .” Oh, Force, she hopes not.

“Okay. So, what do you want me to do?” Lady Tano asks.

Come stroke his bruised ego, Rhea thinks to herself. The man is so rejected. She hopes that he will respond well to being flattered and wooed some. “Tell him that the rebellion needs him . . . that he can still make a difference. Maul needs to feel needed. He wants to know he's wanted." 

“Who knew he was such a prima donna?” Ahsoka Tano observes tartly in response. It reminds Rhea anew of how much she dislikes the woman. But still . . . she needs her help. “Darth Maul, the diva Sith,” the Jedi chuckles at her own joke.

“All men are insecure,” Rhea schools the Light Side nun on the opposite sex. “Even the rich and powerful ones. Maybe them more so than the rest, because they have the most to lose.” She looks hopefully to the Fulcrum spy. “Will you come with me to Dathomir? Will you try to convince him?”

It takes surprisingly little pleading for Rhea to get her way. For the ex-Jedi knows what Rhea knows and others have already argued to Maul: that the rebellion needs him to succeed. Maul is a very effective tactician and a strategic leader. He knows how the Imperial Sith duo think. Moreover, as a self-made man, he also has the entrepreneurial problem-solving skills to effectively get things done. Among the rebellion leadership that is mostly comprised of talkers, Maul stands out as a rare doer. And so, three hours later, Rhea returns to Dathomir accompanied by Ahsoka Tano in her own ship. 

As she exits her spacecraft, Rhea sees Maul waiting for her on the landing pad. The sight makes her smile. She’s relieved and a little surprised that he has honored their old custom of greeting one another’s return. For so many of their small everyday intimacies have fallen by the wayside of late. 

He’s not happy to see her, however. His expression is cool as yellow eyes flit over her and then dart past to where Ahsoka Tano follows.

“This is a surprise,” he drawls, looking back at Rhea with raised eyebrows. “Your doing?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the rebellion needs you,” Ahsoka Tano answers for her. The Jedi folds her arms in an aggressive-defensive posture that is her habit as she announces, “You know it, I know it, we all know it.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Maul snarls back. “And you,” he glares at Rhea, “You have some explaining to do.”

“I never thought the tables would turn like this, but these are strange times and politics truly does make strange bedfellows. So, I guess it’s my turn to say this.” The Togruta takes a deep breath. “Here goes,” she mutters. “I’ll put it in terms you will understand.” She offers Maul her outstretched hand. “Join me. Join us. Maul, we can defeat the Empire. Together, we will kill the Emperor and Darth Vader.”

His eyes converge as he scowls. “Did Mothma and Organa send you?”

“No.”

“Raddus and Draven then?”

“No.”

“Venamis?”

“Who?”

“The rebel benefactor in the Rim.”

“Oh, yeah. That guy. No. He doesn’t interfere in what we do. He just pays the bills.”

Maul grunts at this answer as he meets her eyes. They both know that Prince Venamis aka Darth Plagueis has interfered plenty. But Ahsoka Tano, like the rest of the rebels, is ignorant of the full extent of the Sith involvement with the rebellion.

“Well?” the Jedi prompts him. “Will you help me bring freedom and peace to the galaxy? Will you help me kill Darth Sidious and Darth Vader?” She adds, “You can think of it as revenge, but I will consider it justice.”

Maul counters, “Those are bold words. Skywalker was like a big brother to you.”

“And I understand that the Emperor was like a father to you,” Ahsoka Tano replies softly.

“There is far more going on than you realize,” Maul is cryptic.

The Togruta woman lifts her chin. “Darth Sidious and his Separatist friends framed me for the bombing of the Jedi Temple. I think I understand how the Sith operate.”

“You just think you do. Remember this: there’s always a bigger fish. Bigger even than Darth Sidious.”

Lady Tano quotes Maul her Jedi teaching. “Always two there are. No more, no less.”

“Wrong. Right now, there are four,” Maul reveals. “Three Sith, two of the old style, one who wants to reform the Dark Side, and one Jedi pretender.”

“Which one are you?”

“I’m the old style, unrepentant, unreformed type. I live for revenge, I operate by deceit, and I worship Darkness,” Maul brags.

“No, you don’t.” 

Rhea blinks at this daring, blunt speech. No one talks to Maul like this without consequences.

“You doubt me?” 

Rhea’s heart skips a beat as Maul’s hand now shifts to rest on his sword. She’s beginning to wonder if bringing home this Jedi was a huge mistake. She’s here to encourage him, not duel him.

Self-possessed Ahsoka Tano doesn’t back down. In fact, she takes a few steps forward. “I see it. I’m sure others see it as well. You’re a little too Light these days for a true Sith, Maul.”

Listening Rhea is reminded of Sonic Timmons and some of the other Jedi survivors she saw interact with Maul. Each and every one of them has been surprised by who Darth Maul is now. He’s a man whose outsized reputation precedes him, but that reputation also belies in some respects the man he truly is. Even without the Force, Rhea sees the streak of good in Maul. And though he hides it well, others sense it too.

“You’re more grey than Dark these days,” Lady Tano decides.

Stung at having his Dark Side bona fides questioned, Maul hisses, “Careful what you say to me, Jedi.”

“Oh, I’m not going to pretend that you’re a good guy,” the woman retorts. “But you’re definitely not as Dark as you used to be.” Lady Tano sighs and looks down. There is a flush to her already ruddy cheeks. “I’m not as Light as I used to be either. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, actually . . . “ Her face contorts as she offers, “Look, you don’t need to be Light. You can use the Dark Side to fight a Dark foe. The ends will justify the means . . . er . . . just this once . . . ”

“Care to see my Darkness?” Maul jeers. “I am free to kill you now. There are no rebel Senators around to hoodwink. I don’t have to pretend any longer.”

“You’re pretending now,” the Jedi maintains. She’s just as tenacious as Rhea remembers. And if she keeps this up, there is a real risk that Maul will light his sword to prove her wrong.

“Not too long ago, I was told to kill you,” Maul keeps threatening.

“What stopped you?”

“I don’t take orders from Sith Masters any more. I’m done with the Sith.” He says it casually. But there is nothing casual about Maul disavowing his training to a Jedi. It’s a moment of true courage and independence as he declares, “I’ll never be the Apprentice again.”

Rhea can’t help it. She nods her approval and smiles a little. She knows how hard those words are for Maul to utter, especially to his one-time enemy. Rhea is proud of him.

Does Ahsoka Tano know what it means for Maul to shake off the influence of the Sith? She might, Rhea thinks, since she herself was thrown out of the Jedi Order before she was vindicated and ultimately left of her own accord. Perhaps this Togruta who broke with the people and the tradition that raised her from infancy can relate to where Maul finds himself now. 

“Maul, the rebels need you—“ Rhea tries to get a word in edgewise between the posturing not-quite-Jedi and the blustering no-longer-Sith.

Ahsoka Tano echoes her theme. “Maul, we need you. Whatever Vader said to get in your head, forget it. He’s a lying Sith! Join me and together we can kill the Emperor and Vader,” she offers again. 

Maul’s mouth twists. “Skywalker’s a charmer, that’s for sure.”

“He’s not Skywalker!”

“How long are you going to tell yourself that lie?” Maul sneers. He sniffs, “I didn’t expect Skywalker to be so conflicted. He’s a mess under that helmet. I also didn’t expect him to be a coward.”

That provokes Vader’s old Padawan again. “Anakin Skywalker was the bravest, most noble Jedi there was!”

“Even with his secret wife?”

The Togruta shifts her stance and shifts her eyes. She loses her insistent attitude fast. “You know about that?”

“You do too evidently.”

The former Jedi hems and haws. “Attachment wasn’t the worst sin for a Jedi . . . plenty did far worse, especially during the war . . .”

“Uhmmm, yes,” Maul gloats. “I remember how much Kenobi loved his Duchess. Platonically, of course. But not Skywalker. He fell prey to the sins of the flesh completely. Who was she? Who was Skywalker’s forbidden wife?”

The Jedi refuses to answer. “She’s dead now too.”

“Then it won’t matter if you tell me,” Maul reasons.

“Several of us knew,” Ahsoka Tano looks away as she recalls the past. “We wanted to protect their privacy. They were both public figures and it would be a scandal if it ever became public . . .”

Maul persists. “Tell me who she was.”

“It doesn’t matter . . . it’s the past . . .” 

The Jedi speaks her words with confidence—the irritating woman never lacks for confidence—but her face tells a different story. The past looks to be Ahsoka Tano’s present for a fleeting moment. It tells Rhea that the Togruta is still not over her war years in the Jedi Order. Watching her now, it occurs to Rhea that Ahsoka Tano and Maul might be far more alike than they realize. But as former enemies, they, of course, can only see their differences. 

“Let the past die, Maul.” The Togruta gallantly offers her hand again. “Join me and we will bring freedom to the galaxy. Together we can kill Vader and his Emperor,” she urges.

“You’ll never do that,” Maul retorts sullenly. “I won’t do it either.”

This too is an enormous admission by Maul. Rhea watches his face closely. He is resigned and a little wistful.

“Don’t be silly,” the Jedi woman objects, “I’ve seen you fight. You’re good in a fight. It kills me to admit that, I’ll have you know.” The Togruta cracks a sheepish smile at Maul. “What do you say? Are you in?”

Maul’s response is grim. “I’m done fighting for causes. I leave that to you, Jedi. Now, I only fight for revenge.”

“But we need you,” she urges.

“Listen to her,” Rhea chimes in. “You don’t have to kill Vader to make the galaxy a better place—you can still help the rebellion—you can still matter—“

Maul raises a gloved hand and the ongoing rush of words dies on Rhea’s lips. He shakes his head at her. “It is too late for me.” He looks pointedly at both her and Lady Tano. “I’m done. It’s over. I’m moving on.”

He is a man whose mind is clearly made up. Watching him, Rhea can’t help but feel disappointment. She wanted more for him. For herself, too. And for the galaxy as well.

Maul turns back to the Jedi. “Lady Tano, you just think you’re fighting for freedom. You’re merely a pawn . . . like I was.”

“Who is the fourth Sith you spoke of?”

“Darth Sidious had a Sith Master. He’s alive still.”

The Togruta makes a face. “Great . . . just great. What exactly are you telling me?”

Maul’s answer is vague. “Remember that the Sith deceive. Enemies often look like friends. And friends, like Skywalker, can become enemies.”

“He’s not Darth Vader!” the Jedi practically hollers back.

Maul’s response is rueful and surprisingly gentle. “Go ahead. Delude yourself, I’ve done it too.” He confesses, “I understand why you do it. You loved Skywalker, didn’t you?”

The Togruta doesn’t answer. 

“Ah, I forget. Love is forbidden to a Jedi,” Maul smirks. “Such a bleak life you left behind. Wise decision, Lady Tano.”

The Jedi frowns. “Stop making this about me. Maul, please reconsider—“

“I won’t. Tell Mothma and Organa, I won’t.”

“Then at least, tell us why,” she harrumphs.

“I told you—I can’t win. You can’t win either. I refuse to fight more losing battles.”

Fast approaching ion engines now sound high overhead. All three of them look up at an approaching ship. It’s a Crimson Dawn transport beginning its landing cycle. It rapidly descends.

Maul looks pleased. “Lady Tano, it is time for you to leave. I am receiving an invited guest.” Emphasis on ‘invited.’ “This is supposed to be a happy occasion. I do not wish to mar it with talk of treason.”

“Very well,” the Jedi concedes reluctantly. “If you change your mind, you know how to contact me.”

Maul nods. “Tell the others that I will not betray their trust. The secrets of the rebellion are safe with me.”

“I believe you,” Ahsoka Tano responds with something approaching true respect. “On behalf of the rebellion, thank you for your help. You too, Rhea. You have both done a lot for our cause. You will be remembered and missed.”

“I highly doubt that,” Maul is sardonic. 

Ignoring him, disappointed Rhea bids the Jedi a solemn goodbye. “Good luck and may the Force be with you.”

“There’s no such thing as luck,” Maul frowns. “You know that and she knows that,” he complains. “But if you want to get lucky, Jedi, stay away from Alderaan.”

“Oh? What’s on Alderaan?”

“A future war crime.”

Maul heads to receive the new ship. And that’s when Rhea realizes that Maul wasn’t waiting on the landing pad for her earlier. He was waiting for this unknown visitor. 

To be polite, Rhea walks the Jedi back to her ship. “It was worth a try,” she ventures as the Togruta sighs. There is no love lost between her and the Jedi woman, but they are both committed to the goals of the rebellion. Rhea knows that’s why she came to Dathomir today. Maul’s intransigence has left them both discouraged and frustrated.

“I hope he finds what he wants,” the Jedi observes softly as she looks back to where Maul stands. The incoming transport has settled down now. Its repulsor lifts expel hot steam as the ramp descends. It briefly obscures the black clad figure of Maul in a white cloud of fog.

Rhea follows her eyes to Maul and that’s when she glances to the disembarking passengers. She does a double take. Then she squints for a closer look.

“Oh. . .“ 

It can’t be. Can it? 

“Oh, my . . .” Rhea’s heart starts racing and her breath catches in her throat.

The Jedi at her side senses her reaction. “What’s the matter? Who’s that?”

“I—I—“ Rhea can’t seem to form words as she stares. For down the transport ramp walk two Crimson Dawn men accompanied by a slight, middle aged Twi’lek man. His green lekku show wrinkles like his face does now. But Rhea knows that face. At least, she thinks she does. And the posture and walk are the same. But it’s been a long time, and she’s looking from a distance. 

“I—I—” She keeps stammering. Because it can’t be . . . can it??

The Twi’lek man approaches Maul who nods a greeting and then gestures in her direction. That prompts the visitor to approach Rhea where she stands with the Jedi. The man halts about two meters away. He stares in open mouthed disbelief while she stares back. 

“R-Rhea?” the man chokes out. “Is that really you?”

“D-Daddy?” she whispers.

  
  
  
  
  


  
  



	32. chapter 32

Fear is powerful. Both sides of the Force agree. Fear makes you desperate. Fear makes you reckless. Fear cannot be reasoned with. Fear cowers and shouts, it does not discuss. It simply reacts.

For the Sith, fear is a powerful tool to manipulate. Make someone fearful and you control them. The Jedi knew this to be true. They believed fear is the path to the Dark Side, and so fear must be avoided. Add to that the Jedi Order’s belief that fear arises most often from love—from love of people, love of self, or love of possessions—and you justify the Jedi Code. ‘Let go’ was the mantra of the Light. Let go of the need for other people, for things, even for your own emotions. Detach from earthly concerns and physical needs and you will free yourself. There will be nothing left to fear. 

The Sith solved the problem differently. They want you to face your fears. To embrace the pain of life and channel it into power. Adversity empowers a Sith. Thus, Dark warriors of the Force tend to dig in and go the distance with a determination that verges on obsession. This is the tradition Maul was raised in. It’s the mindset that refuses to accept ‘no’ for an answer. The attitude that doubles down on every selfish desire. And that makes it very hard to set limits and to walk away. But in the wake of Darth Plagueis’ revelations, Maul knows he needs to cut his losses. 

Still, it’s hard to leave the past behind. To come to grips with the people who let you down and disappointed you, to face up to their shortcomings and your own, to know that there are rifts that do not heal and words that cannot be unsaid, things that cannot be undone, and people, maybe including yourself, who will not change. At some point, you have to own it all, for better or for worse. Then, you can truly move on. And now, at long last—probably decades too late—Maul feels ready to move on. 

Truthfully, it’s less of an affirmative choice than it is a fact of life thrust upon him. It’s more than merely the logic of the situation—that you shouldn’t fight a losing battle—it’s tough love for his own good. Maul knows he has to safeguard his mental health more than most. Of all his fears for his future, the never-mentioned fear that he will have another mental beak looms largest. So, after he absorbs the initial disappointment of Plagueis’ news, fearful Maul resolves to make changes. 

But even that poses challenges. Because as he struggles with his frustration and disappointment over the past, it only begs the question: what is his future?

If you can’t rule the galaxy, everything feels like a comedown. It’s a truth he cannot deny—nothing satisfies him like power. So what’s his consolation prize? Should he start a gang war and try to take over the Underworld? Maul mulls over his next move carefully in between long stretches of wallowing in Darkness.

All that introspection puts him in a very bad mood. It forces him to confront his dissatisfaction with his life of crime. Frankly, Crimson Dawn embarrasses him. He’s a Sith, not a criminal. There’s a difference. And so, as he contemplates abandoning his position in the rebellion and walking away from his Father forever, Maul also considers leaving his gang behind. He’s making other big changes. Maybe he should change it all. Start anew completely. Change begets change, after all. But, what to do next? Maul keeps coming back to the one goal that has remained constant through the decades. It’s the pursuit that kept him alive through mutilation and insanity: his quest for revenge on Kenobi. 

With killing Kenobi in mind, the rest falls into place. Having a priority helps you put things in perspective. He knows now what he must do. The list of things he will exit is clear and he starts formulating plans to make it happen. It’s strangely freeing, but also bittersweet. Because some of what he leaves behind he will miss keenly.

And that brings him to this moment on the compound landing pad as he watches the tearful reunion of what remains of the Cardulla family. 

“Rhea, is that really you?”

“D-Daddy?” 

Maul looks on in silence a few paces away from father and daughter. His little Twi’lek love has never seemed so young to him as she does in this moment. Rhea is achingly vulnerable as she calls her long-lost father by a small child’s moniker. Look at her, so hopeful and happy. There is a purity to her joy that makes it the provenance of youth. For with time comes experience and, inevitably, cynicism. But none of that adult skepticism mars this reunion. It is everything he ever wanted for Rhea. It’s also what for many years he wanted for himself.

Father and daughter embrace now. They are both overwhelmed with emotion. 

“I didn’t believe it at first . . . I thought it was some spice gang’s scam to extort credits . . . that they would tell me you were alive in exchange for money—“

“Oh, Daddy—I searched—for years afterwards, I searched—I gave up—“

“I know. He told me.”

“I thought you were dead—or lost to me forever—“

“I sent you and your sister off to school and I never saw you again.”

“Thetis is dead.”

“He told me.”

Maul wants a fresh start, and he will give Rhea a fresh start as well. Searching for her father has been a months long endeavor. But it came to an end at just the right time. This should soften the blow. She will be happy, he decides as he gazes at the reuniting pair. 

He feels eyes on him. Maul looks up and sees Ahsoka Tano catch him smiling. What is she doing still here? He told that Jedi to leave.

“I can never repay you for this,” Silas Cardulla tells him as he looks up from where Rhea snuggles against his chest. “You don’t know how much this means to me,” the man chokes out.

Ah, but Maul does know. For he himself has longed for a version of this moment with his own father. Watching this tearful reconciliation tugs at his bruised soul far more than he shows. But he knew that would be the case. He did it anyway. Because while it’s not always popular to say publicly, fathers matter. Not just for sons, but for daughters too. Family matters. 

Mrs. Nettles walks up now. Floating beside her is a trunk full of Rhea’s things. She tells him quietly. “It’s all here, Sir. Like you requested.”

“Thank you. That will be all.”

The greying housekeeper looks on at the Cardullas and smiles her approval. “I’m going to miss our girl, Sir,” she tells him under her breath, “but this is a good thing you are doing.”

He will miss Rhea too. Far more than she or anyone else will realize. That’s part of why it has taken him so long to pull the trigger on this decision. Because on some level, it feels like he is thrusting his best chance for lasting happiness away from him. But still, it’s for the best. Sometimes love means putting another’s happiness before your own. He will make this sacrifice for her.

Rhea runs to him now, enveloping him in a hug. “I know you said you could find him, but I never believed it . . .” In fact, she had discouraged him from searching for her father. But he did it anyway. “Thank you, thank you,” she gushes. Jubilant Rhea pulls back and tells her father, “Let’s go inside to talk. I want you to meet some people.”

Maul meets Silas Cardulla’s eye and shakes his head no. This was the deal. Quick and clean. Like ripping off a bacta patch. Like a humane execution. You do it fast and it hurts less.

“Let’s talk on the ship instead,” Rhea’s father mumbles. “Come.” He tugs at his daughter.

“The ship?” Rhea looks around in confusion. Her eyes alight on the travel luggage. She stares at it a long moment. Then, she visibly swallows. “M-Maul??” she ventures weakly. 

His response is to beckon to one of the two men who accompanied Silas Cardulla on the flight here. Maul gestures to the trunk and orders, “Load it up and get on board yourselves.” He doesn’t want any more witnesses to what’s coming next. For already, his heart is twisting and his throat suddenly has a lump.

Rhea’s face says it all. She has just gone from one of the greatest highs of her life to a crushing low. “M-Maul?” she whispers. “Maul, what’s going on?” 

“You’re going home with your father,” he puts the best possible spin on it. He forces himself to meet her eyes.

“But I live here.”

“Not anymore.”

Rhea pales beneath her verdant skin. Her eyes follow the men walking the luggage trunk up the transport ramp. “Those are my things, aren’t they?” she deduces. Then she blinks and looks to him. “This is goodbye?” she asks weakly. Rhea is horrified, raising a dismayed hand to her face. 

He nods. 

“This is goodbye—Oh, Gods, you’re—we’re—” she starts sputtering. Then, she falls silent. Clearly, despite all their recent distance, she has not seen this coming. 

He keeps his voice slow and measured to tamp down his own surging emotion. For he has dreaded this moment. It’s partly why he has distanced himself from Rhea lately. To prepare them both for this parting.

“I want you to rejoin your family. To live the life you planned before the war and before the gang. To be the person you were meant to be all along.” 

She shakes her head at him. “I can’t do that. It’s years too late for that—“

“You can. I’m giving you that chance.” He confesses his intent. “I want you to make your own choices without me or any other Sith in the background pulling the strings.”

“Can’t I just choose you?”

“Rhea, you can’t go where I’m going.” He won’t drag her with him on a vagabond life across the galaxy searching for answers in temples.

“So I’m supposed to start over, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“You tell me you want me to make choices, and yet you’re making this choice for me? You get to unilaterally decide? Is that it?” she half shrieks. She is getting agitated now.

He keeps his cool and nods. “Yes.”

“But I am Crimson Dawn!”

“Not any longer.” She’s breathing hard and wiping at her eyes as her emotions overwhelm her. Maul can’t help it. He walks forward to comfort her. “Rhea, I want you to want more for yourself than me. To want more than this. Like I want more than this.”

“I don’t understand,” she wails.

“I was willing to trap you here with me, but I won’t consign you to this life under my successor.”

“S-Successor?“ she echoes blankly. 

“I’m done with crime. I’m handing over the gang to Uli. I don’t know if he will be able to hold off the Hutts and the Pikes. He might. But if he doesn’t, I don’t want you here in the line of fire. They will kill everyone they find.”

“What are you saying?” she demands hotly. “You quit the rebellion and now you’re quitting your own gang?”

“Yes.”

“Can you even do that? Maul, you’re our leader!”

“Not any longer. I’m leaving.”

“To do what?”

“To find Kenobi.”

“Oh, come on!” Rhea exclaims. “You’re already searching for him. You don’t need to quit to find that Jedi—"

“Others have been searching for me. But I can search in ways they cannot.”

“How?

“Through the Force. I’m going to Malachor.”

“Where is that? What’s there?”

“A old temple that has the knowledge I seek.”

She refuses to accept this plan. Rhea rails, “Kenobi is the past!”

“He is my future now.” Maul looks away and adds, “Kenobi is all I have left.” His tone is bitter. 

“There is no glory in revenge,” Rhea asserts.

That hits a nerve. “There is no glory for me at all! I only began Crimson Dawn to fund my search for Kenobi. It took on an outsize importance over time. I never set out to be a crime lord. I never affirmatively choose this life. I’m tired of being a criminal.” He’s not a thug, he’s a prince. Dishonored and disowned, but a prince nonetheless. 

None of this is news to Rhea. She consoles him, “I know, I know. But you are Crimson Dawn—“

“Not any longer. I would rather die by my enemy’s sword than be killed by a Hutt. I’m through running spice and selling women. I’m better than this,” he sniffs. So is she. 

“Then go back to the rebellion,” Rhea pleads. “Leave the gang if you want, and work full time on the rebellion—“

He cuts her off. “I told you—I’m done helping Plagueis. I refuse to be a pawn for the Sith.”

“And you’re done with me as well?” she chokes. 

He looks away. “You can’t go where I am going.”

“Why not?” she objects. “You said we are a team—you wanted to get married—you said you love me—“

“I do love you,” he grinds out, feeling especially aware of their audience. Rhea’s father looks on in silence while that pesky Jedi dropout Lady Tano watches closely. It’s not ideal. 

Maul sighs. “I don’t expect you to understand this now, but maybe when time has passed you will see that I am doing this because I love you. Because I want a better life for you than this gang and the rebellion.” He leaves it there. Because he can hear emotion creeping into his voice and he will not humiliate himself before others. Reaching into his pocket, he locates a credit card and thrusts it at Rhea. “Here.”

She takes it. “What is this?”

“More credits than you could ever spend.”

She recoils. “I don't want your credits! Take them back.” She shakes the money card at him. “Take it!”

Maul refuses. “No. I want you to keep them. Spend them. Be happy, live well, and start a new life. Move on from me and the gang.”

“No!” It’s her turn to refuse. “I don’t want that! I want our life together here—“

“I’m leaving Dathomir today.”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“This is all because of Vader and the Muun?”

“Yes. It has forced me to reevaluate things.”

She falls silent now, her chest heaving as she processes real time what she is hearing. His love was dismayed at first, but now she’s angry. Force bless her, for she resists and fights for him. And, of course, she does. This is the girl who begged Darth Vader to punish her in his place. 

Rhea eyes narrow. “I killed a man for you!” she hisses as Silas Cardulla gapes in alarm.

“He was going to die anyway.”

“Not by me, he wasn’t!”

Rhea is shaking a finger at him, so he intercepts her wrists. Looking down into her stormy eyes, he soothes, “I know you would do anything for me. Treason and murder included. I won’t ask that of you anymore. You deserve better than me.”

“No, I don’t! You say it yourself, we are a team! Maul, I love you!” she wails. 

“Little one—“

“I love you! And you love me!” she insists in a voice that carries.

“That’s not enough. My life and my gang have dragged you down far enough. You were never meant for this life any more than I was. Rhea, I can’t give you stability, and I am far too old for you. I’ll never give you children—“

“I don’t care!”

“One day, you may. And then, it could be too late.” She’s crying into his chest now as he strokes her lekku. So much for letting her down easy. This has become the heart wrenching scene he feared. “In time, you will find someone else.”

“Never!” Her voice is muffled into his chest. “There will never be another you. I only want you.”

He appreciates the sentiment, but it’s making him doubt his decision. He can feel his resolve waning. Because he’s a passionate Sith and he can resist everything but temptation. Especially the temptation of this woman. Oh, the irony of life that once he feared Rhea leaving him and yet today, he pushes her away.

“You said I could never leave you—that you would kill me if I looked at another man—that I was yours—“

He did say those things, didn’t he? He meant them, too. 

“We were good together. Rhea, you’ll never know how much you mean to me. The Force sent you to me, I’m sure of it. But I won’t drag you across the galaxy on some damned foolish crusade of revenge that may never conclude. You’ll be wasting the prime of your life with a washed-up has-been.”

“Maul!”

“You belong with your father. Go with him now and be happy.”

“I don’t like you like this,” she snaps as she pulls back. “I don’t like you so selfless. This isn’t you!”

She knows him so well. Too well. He cringes. 

Rhea sees his reticence and seizes on it. “You’re a killer and a kingpin! A man who plots and deceives! So what’s your angle today?” she accuses. “Because I know you’ve always got an angle.”

He answers with the truth. “I only have your best interests at heart. Now, go. Get out of here,” he orders gruffly as he steps back from her. Much more of this and he will change his mind. 

“Come, Rhea.” It’s Silas Cardulla who meets his eyes. He and Rhea’s father have an understanding, and the man is keeping his part of the bargain. “Let me take you home. It’s time to go.”

She ignores him. 

“This isn’t you, Maul,” Rhea accuses again between sniffs. “This isn’t you at all! Where’s my S-Sith??” she complains. “Where’s my Dark prince who does what he pleases?? Because he can take whatever he wants? This isn’t you!” She is shrill with intensity.

Embarrassed by their ugly private scene before witnesses, Maul sighs. Again, he answers with the truth. “This is me, and you know it. This is me . . . but only for you . . . ” 

This is what it means to be loved by Darth Maul. For any other woman, he would gladly accept what she’s offering. But not for Rhea. He cares too much to let her throw her life away on him. And he should know, since he’s a man who has wasted far too much of his own life already. He squandered his youth on insanity and he squandered his prime on Crimson Dawn. So far, he has accomplished little of anything he set out to do. And so, it is time to accomplish his revenge, at least.

But Rhea’s putting up a fight. Truthfully, he’s miserable and yet happy about it. He hates to let her go but he’s relieved to see her resist. His Rhea may have come to him a timid little thing, but she has since found her voice. He likes to think he helped with that. She was a resilient soul before he found her, but he leaves her a more confident young woman. 

He could end this scene like a proper Sith. He could pull his sword and stab Rhea through the heart like Darth Malgus ended his beloved Twi’lek. Because if he’s concluded he can’t have Rhea, then no one will. Except he could never do that to her. He wants her to move on. To find some regular guy with some workaday job who will love her, marry her, and take care of her. Some man who will give her a home and maybe children too. They will live an ordinary life with boring fights and pedestrian concerns. It will be everyday, run-of-the-mill happiness that no one appreciates unless they lack it.

Still, she’s so appealing in her distress. Knowing their relationship ends today, he cannot resist. Stepping forward to place gloved hands on her cheeks, he lifts her face and bends close. 

“You said you l-loved m-me,” she hiccups with overflowing eyes. “You p-promised to love m-me . . . “

“How many times must I tell you,” Maul chides gently, “to never trust a Sith.” Then he captures her lips for one last kiss. 

They aren’t a couple who makes public displays of affection. They might be an open secret in the gang, but no one has seen them so much as hold hands. But today he gives everyone a good look at a torrid kiss. He means it to be a tender goodbye, but somehow that plan goes awry. The kiss goes on and on before he breaks it. She’s panting and so is she. Before Rhea can speak, he waves a hand and steals her consciousness with the Force. 

Instantly, she slumps. He catches her, hoisting her high in his arms. Maul catches Silas Cardulla’s eyes and nods. “Time to go.” He heads for the transport.

“Rhea!” Cardulla is alarmed at his daughter’s collapse.

“She’s fine,” he assures him. “She’ll wake up in a few hours.”

“What did you do to her?” the man demands.

Ahsoka Tano answers. “He put her to sleep in the Force.”

Cardulla recoils. “The Force? You use the Force? Wait—you’re a Jedi?” The man is spooked as he stares in horror at Maul. “Oh Gods . . .” he breathes out his obvious fear. He looks like he expects Vader and a squad of stormtroopers will appear at any moment to arrest him.

“She’s the Jedi,” Maul nods to Ahsoka Tano as he heads up the transport ramp carrying sleeping Rhea. “I’m the Sith.”

“You’re Jedi??” Behind him, Cardulla reacts again.

“Ex-Jedi,” Lady Tano gripes.

“Don’t worry,” Maul calls back to the pair. “She and Vader are old friends. They go way back.”

The comment earns him a glare from the rebel operative.

Cardulla follows him into the ship where he lays Rhea down in the lounge area. He arranges her dress for modesty and drapes her lekku for comfort. Then, he takes a long look at the young woman he unexpectedly and very improbably came to love. He saw the beauty eclipsed by her disfigured face and the hidden abilities obscured by her housemaid status. Her mix of stoic misery and hopefulness charmed him from the outset. She also believed in him—she still does. All along, Rhea has seen his merit and viewed his Dark past with compassion. She wanted to help him be a better man, to transcend his narrative of failure, and to build a brighter future. But for Darth Plagueis and Darth Vader, it might have happened. But it’s far too risky to continue with the rebellion now. Maul doesn’t think he can withstand more failure or rejection at this point. Better to quit. 

“She’ll be alright,” he mutters sadly as he looks down on Rhea. 

Hovering Silas Cardulla starts in on profuse thanks and Maul waves him off. There’s been enough emoting today and he needs to get this over with. A large part of him still wants to bring Rhea with him on his search for Kenobi, but he won’t do that to her. He won’t make his vendetta hers. He won’t drag this young woman so full of Light further down into his Darkness. 

Thoroughly upset but trying to hide it, he manages only a choked request. “Take good care of her.”

Rhea’s father promises, “I will.”

Maul stops by the cockpit on his way out to order the pilot to liftoff. Then, he disembarks and stands on the landing pad watching the ship ascend into the atmosphere. From there, it will jump to lightspeed heading for Ryloth.

“May the Force be with her.” It’s Ahsoka Tano’s voice. Maul whirls to find her watching him. Apparently, he’s been so rattled that he hasn’t noticed her lingering presence. 

What does it take to get this woman to leave? Maul snarls, “You’re still here?”

The Jedi stands her ground, pops out her hip, and deploys her snark. “Well, I couldn’t interrupt that tender love scene.”

He slants her a dirty look. “You should try love some time, Jedi. It might open your eyes.”

“There is Light in you—“

“Don’t start.” He’s definitely not in the mood for one of those conversations. As it is, he’s feeling pretty Dark right now.

But Ahsoka Tano persists. She is the type of woman who always persists. “I saw it just then. Others see it too, I’m sure.”

“Spare me your attempt at conversion,” he growls. “The Jedi are wrong. But the Sith are wrong too—“

“Come with me to the rebellion. Come help us. You don’t need a name for what you are.” Amazingly, Ahsoka Tano is still trying to recruit him back to the cause. 

The transport is out of sight. Rhea is truly gone. And with it, the Light in his life. What’s worse, it was a self-inflicted wound. Has he made a terrible mistake? Maul hopes not. 

Ahsoka Tano walks up right beside him now. She looks like she’s about to outstretch her hand again and make him an offer. “Drop it,” he forestalls her.

She is undeterred. “Maul, I know there is good in you. The Emperor hasn’t driven it from you fully. Let go of your hate.”

‘Let go of your hate?’ Was any self-respecting Sith ever swayed by such a lousy pitch? Maul rolls his eyes. “I told you to drop it.” His patience is never good, but it’s especially thin currently. 

Feeling he needs to reclaim some of his usual bravado after that uncomfortably honest scene with Rhea, he smirks over at the Jedi. He tries to pretend that she saw nothing special. “Stop taking what you saw at face value. The Sith deceive, remember? I deceived her like I deceived you and the rebels. But thanks for the offer.”

“Did you even consider it?”

“No. But it’s nice to be wanted.”

“You confound me, Maul,” the Jedi fumes. “But it’s an open offer, in case you change your mind.”

“So if I kill Kenobi and get bored, you’ll welcome me back?” he goads.

Her answer surprises him. “If you find Obi-Wan, you should ask him to join us rather than fight him.”

“What makes you think I’ll do that?”

“Oh, you won’t. But you should. Rise above your petty grievances and step up for the good of the galaxy.”

There is nothing petty about being chopped in half. Offended Maul hisses back, “I’m a Sith. We aren’t known for our altruism.”

She raises a cool eyebrow at him. Her expression is irritatingly knowing. “Is that what I just saw with Rhea? Your altruism?”

That does it. He’s heard enough. It’s been an emotional morning and Ahsoka Tano is an uninvited guest who’s already been asked to leave once. So, to underscore that point Maul thrusts out a hand and lets loose a mighty Force push. It sends the smug Togruta halfway across the landing pad to land in a sprawl beside her ship. Hopefully, she’ll take the hint.

She doesn’t. Lady Tano picks herself up off the pavement. She lights her two swords. “Are we doing this? Are we really doing this?” she jeers her challenge. “Because I’m ready for a rematch any time you want, Maul.”

He cocks his head at her. “If you’re not with me, you’re my enemy? Is that it? Lady Tano, you are trending Dark.” He looks her over and sniffs. “Go back to the rebels.”

Her response is a flashy sword twirl. Then, she sinks into a low crouch, ready to duel.

It’s tempting, but Maul declines. He won’t fight this woman because killing her only helps Plagueis’ plot to lure Vader. So Maul takes a page out of Vader’s own playbook, informing her, “I will not fight you.” He turns on heel, leaving her even more flummoxed as he marches into his compound. 

Next, he summons Uli to tell him that he’s being promoted. It just leaves faking his own death on his to do list. But soon enough, his exit from Crimson Dawn is arranged. All the loose ends are tied up. It’s time to leave. 

He follows Mother’s advice and heads to Malachor, the site of one of the oldest extant Sith temples. Mother was never a fan of the Sith after her experience with Darth Sidious, but she did respect the long dead Sith of yore. These were the Sith in the tradition of their sorcerer leader, Darth Vitiate. Mother sends him to seek their old knowledge that she views to be the closest equivalent to the coven’s old ways. Maul is to wait for a boy who will join him and help him. 

The wait is long. Too long, in fact, for his increasingly unstable mind. Loneliness is hard for him. He was conditioned from his early days at the coven to need other people around. But, as foretold, the boy shows up. He turns out to be a Force sensitive rebel who is student to a grown Padawan fugitive. His Jedi teacher is half-trained, at best. The boy’s budding power chafes at his teacher’s limitations. The kid is hungry for knowledge, eager for revenge on the Empire that killed his parents, and searching for a father figure. He wants to know how to destroy the Sith in order to aid the rebels. The context and the goal make the kid easy to persuade.

Maul uses the boy’s enthusiasm and inexperience to his advantage. He introduces the kid to doubt and to the Dark Side. He exploits his curiosity and pain. It culminates when together—Light and Dark—they attempt some old Nightsister magic that pays off big time. Through the Force, he learns that Kenobi lives. And importantly, Maul finally learns where. He is jubilant at the news. For this task, at least, he will accomplish.

At long last, after many years meandering through mistakes and missteps, he finds Kenobi. His arch foe hides out in the open on the backwater Hutt-controlled desert world Tatooine. It turns out those random rumors a few years back were true. 

When they meet, like himself, the Jedi Master is no longer young. Hardship, defeat, betrayal, and the harsh desert environment have aged Kenobi remarkably in the over ten years or so since Maul last saw him. He might not have recognized the man but for his Force imprint that remains unchanged. It’s blindingly Light, just like Maul recalls. That, at least, is the same.

But otherwise, General Obi-Wan Kenobi has come down in life. He once commanded armies, loved a Mandalore Duchess, and rubbed shoulders with Senators. Now, he lives in seclusion in obscurity. Maybe that’s a wise choice during the Purge, but it somehow disappoints Maul. He expected to find Kenobi as gallant, defiant, and committed as ever. Instead, he discovers a squalid man steeped in regrets. It occurs to Maul that if the intervening years were a contest, he himself might have won. Because his own shameful denouement of being a crime lord tops desert hobo life any day. 

What is his old nemesis doing here anyway? Maul suspects Kenobi is doing more than merely hiding. For somewhere close by lurks a person with an enormous Force imprint. It’s arresting. Like the Force imprint of Bail Organa’s little daughter had been. 

Could Kenobi be protecting someone? Maul wonders. He remembers now that Skywalker had a wife. A dead wife who Ahsoka Tano and others close to Skywalker knew about. Presumably including Kenobi. Now, a Jedi with a secret wife might also have a secret child . . . With a sudden flash of insight, Maul thinks he knows why Kenobi is here. 

Yes, it all makes sense. For knowing the Jedi hero Kenobi, he’s not protecting himself from Vader, he’s protecting someone else. Could it be the offspring of the Chosen One? Is that the answer to the riddle of Tatooine? Is Vader’s kid hidden here? Watched over by his old Jedi Master?

Suddenly, Maul sees a new reason to kill Kenobi. Because if he can nab Vader’s kid, he will be back in the game of power. This is the leverage he needs to stage a real comeback. The possibilities are intriguing.

The Force agrees. For suddenly, it is churning with excitement and dread. The sense of danger and foreboding is palpable. That means it’s time to get down to business.

There is little preamble to the fight. The exchange of words is brief. Then, the old, persistent adversaries square off. The battle is quick and decisive. Maul falls. His quest for revenge—like all his grand ambitions—is ultimately unachievable.

“Tell me,” Maul manages as he turns his face in the direction of that unseen anonymous Force user with amazing power. Kenobi must sense it too. His enemy knows he knows. “Is it the Chosen One’s?” Maul’s fading fast and that’s all he can manage. 

Kenobi understands. He confirms, “He is.”

A small, rare smile tugs at Maul’s lips. The pleasure is Dark as he utters his final words. “Then he will avenge us both.” Because if the Chosen One Vader can’t destroy the Sith and balance the Force, maybe his kid can. Maul can only hope. 

He takes comfort in this possibility for himself and for Kenobi. For, despite being enemies, he and his Jedi nemesis are both victims of the Sith. Kenobi lost his Duchess, his Padawan, his cherished Republic, and his beloved Jedi Order to Darth Sidious. And he? Well, he lost his childhood, his mother, his brother, and his homeworld. Maul knows now that he was merely a placeholder. All his dreams of a grand purpose and a life of significance were a sham. For years, he blamed Kenobi for stealing his destiny by maiming him. But, in truth, Vader was always going to eventually replace him, whether or not he lost at Naboo.

And so, while Maul can rightly blame Kenobi for his injury, he cannot blame him for all the rest. That blame lies on Father, on Plagueis, and on Mother. Killing Kenobi would do nothing to address that.

Maul finally joins the Force in his longtime enemy’s arms, cradled gently in his lap. As ironic as that is, it is also fitting. For Obi-Wan Kenobi was distinguished as much by his compassion as he was by his Jedi dogma. Does his old nemesis also recognize how broken and lost he is? Maybe because Kenobi now is broken and lost as well? The man who injured him decades ago has finally killed him, but he strangely takes no pleasure in it. This is not a victory for Kenobi.

Is it a defeat for him? Well, yes. But it’s also closure. Finally, his longtime quest for revenge comes to an end. He never confronted his Father a third time, and he never drew his sword on Vader. After he left the rebellion, Plagueis went back to ignoring him. It confirmed that he was that old Muun’s tool all along. But Maul gets his resolution with Kenobi. And that’s something. 

In that final duel, he is driven less by rage and lust for revenge than he is by a sense of fulfillment. He has spent years seeking the rematch, and he finally gets his chance. But try as he might to summon his Darkness, Maul falters in the moment. He’s always had an issue with projecting his own feelings onto others. And so, finding Kenobi a wreck in the desert reminds him uncomfortably of his own low points. Of his years spent insane. Of his time alone on Malachor. It awakens unspoken empathy in Maul for his victim. The unacknowledged stubborn streak of Light in him shows. It’s enough to weaken his Dark power, and it tips the balance for Kenobi to win. 

Maul Oppress does not die redeemed to the Light as a proper Jedi might like. But he doesn’t die a Sith either. He dies somewhere in between, an incongruous mix of motivations. It’s not the balance of the Force, but it would still make his mother proud. In the end, he found the peace a Sith rejects, even if he did not have a Jedi’s purpose. Maul ultimately ends life as he began it. He might have been raised by Darth Sidious, but he dies the galaxy’s last Nightbrother. 

THE END


	33. chapter 33 story notes to ending

Hello and thanks for reading. 

All Sith lords suffer in some way. The Dark Side is the ugly, if necessary, side of life. And so, the men of Darkness are always burned, maimed, and/or disfigured. It’s a visual metaphor for their pain. Maul is no exception. He gets sliced in half and goes insane. He’s a literally broken, mentally broken, pitiful wreck who gets rejected by his Father master. His de facto asexual status is yet another vivid manifestation of his powerlessness. We meet him decades later after he has clawed his way back to a semblance of success and content. But Crimson Dawn, like its crippled and impotent leader, is a shadow of what Maul originally expected. It’s a poor consolation that he can’t quite convince himself to accept. 

That discontent is at the crux of the experience of my Dark heroes. They all chafe at what they have, always yearning for more even as they sometimes buckle under the weight of theirs (or others’) expectations. Maul is very much like my recent version of Vader and that is no accident. I finally went back to read _Twilight of the Gods_ (I never read my stories in full until some time has passed) and it’s not as bad as I feared. Vader feels like a failure, and in many ways he is. He too is discontent with the role he plays in the galaxy. But here’s the rub: Maul only wishes he was a failure as successful as Lord Vader. Because poor Maul doesn’t get the job of Apprentice that Vader feels trapped in. In my stories, both Vader and Maul are high functioning, very successful chronic depressives. Men like that are far more common than you think. I’m married to one, so I know. Well into midlife, they have accomplished a fair amount, but it doesn’t satisfy them. They mostly see all the things they want but can’t have. 

Maul is adrift and he knows it. He exists in his bubble of underworld power as an emotionally remote, forbidding figure who emotes only with eruptions of violence. Until, of course, he meets the compassionate, equally miserable woman to whom he can unburden his soul. That’s a Gothic trope—think Mr. Rochester meets Jane. Long suffering man meets long suffering woman and sparks fly and trouble ensues. Except Maul is sort of a Gothic figure writ large. He’s the remote Dark leading man (pick any Bronte hero) + the monstrous cripple (blind Mr. Rochester at the end) + the occult mystic (Dracula et al) + the slightly unhinged lover who teeters on the edge of insanity at times (Heathcliff). Throw in a little Thomas Hardy-type tragedy of a character struggling against the limitations imposed on them and you get the pathos of Darth Maul. This guy is every bit as multi-layered of a character as Vader.

And that’s why I wanted the two rival Apprentices to meet. When Maul meets Vader, there is a lot of trash talk and no swords. The short answer to that plot decision is that SW canon pretty much demands it. But the real answer is that I don’t see Vader fighting Maul. Vader refuses to give him what he wants—maybe that’s motivated by a little altruism on Vader’s part, but Vader is also a very petty man. He’d do it just to spite Maul in any case. This is Vader before _Twilight of the Gods_ , when he is still hung up on the past (i.e. obsessively trying to resurrect Padme). He hates his master and he hates his life. Basically, Vader goes through the motions while he toys at being the Deep State within the Empire. That’s why Vader doesn’t bother to kill Maul or even to interrogate him. Ultimately, Vader lets him go. In the scene, Vader has the power but wants the girl. Maul has the girl but wants the power. The two men meet but there is no meeting of the minds. Vader and Maul never understand each other’s views or motivations. It’s actually only superficially a confrontation. For Maul, it is yet another defeat. Only he didn’t even get the chance to be a contender, and that might be even worse than losing to Vader. He ends up feeling stung and desperate.

Now, I have written several stories of Sith Lords in midlife crisis That’s Vader’s plot in _Twilight of the Gods_. It’s Darth Malgus’ frustration in _Darker_. It’s also forty-five-year-old Supreme Leader Kylo Ren’s ennui and bitterness in _The Chosen One_. I really like this timeframe for a hero. It’s a point in life when things are no longer about talent and potential. It’s a time when heroes have status and responsibilities, meaning they have a lot to lose. They might have a sad backstory, but they are way past whining about their parents. These men matter and that’s not because they are the latest Anakin/Rey/Luke wunderkind. By the time we meet them, they have made mistakes and experienced defeats. They are seasoned, repeat players.

In _Rule of Two_ , Maul’s most fervent wish is to reconcile with his father and to resume the Apprentice role. Why? Because he wants to matter. In canon, Maul doesn’t really matter. He’s sort of a side story with a cool lightsaber for the two recent cartoon series. I think that’s a waste of his character. And so, I wanted Maul to truly contribute in this story. And he does. Maul is a key player in the organization of the Alliance. He has a hand in everything from the actual rebel bases on Dantooine and Yavin, to the rebel military. That will live on long after Maul is gone from the scene. In the end, his insights will be critical to the success of the Alliance. Now, naturally, plenty of others will assist (namely the Skywalker twins), but the setup for it all is courtesy of Darth Maul. In the end, Maul matters even if few are left alive to give him credit. That is intentional as well to fit within canon—Maul’s crony Raddus dies over Scarif and Bail Organa dies on Alderaan. Major Draven is still around, as well as Mon Mothma (who is not a fan of Maul). Ahsoka lives and she will cross paths with Maul again in the future in canon with Ezra Bridger.

Now, when you are writing a story about Maul’s lost years between _Solo_ and his demise in _Rebels_ , you are a bit hamstrung by canon. I worried that meant this tale would become one long character study—i.e. boring because nothing happens. So, what is the plot? Maul can’t take out Vader or conquer Mandalor. So, what can he do? My answer is he plots the rebellion. But mostly, Maul’s drama is with himself. Readers watch a man struggle with disappointment, failure, and insecurities. His resolution at the end is a victory of sorts. Maul breaks free of the hold of the Sith—which is good. But he reverts to his revenge quest—which is ultimately self-destructive. His decision has personal consequences ending his relationship with Rhea and galactic consequences when he leaves the rebellion. But for all the bad fallout, I hope you see this ending as a step forward for Maul in some respects. Sure, it doesn’t work out. But as I have said before, Maul is the saga’s most tragic hero. 

In the end, our lovers must part. I didn’t want Maul to end up killing Rhea—I hate endings like that. So much so that my Malgus and Eleena fic didn’t stay precisely true to canon, even if Eleena does die. I have enough dead heroines in my catalog as is. Basically, violence and especially death need to have a reason in a story. Having major characters die should never be a trite resolution just because you need an ending. 

Rhea gets her happy ending in some ways. Her face is miraculously healed. She gains experience, skills, and confidence thanks to her role in Crimson Dawn. She gets reunited with what’s left of her family. Yes, she loses her love and that is devastating. But it might be the best thing in the end. Not all couples are meant to be together forever. That’s not the most popular sentiment, but I think it’s true. Maul and Rhea come together and grow individually from their relationship. But their long-term prospects for staying together are bleak and Maul sees that. He’s going places she cannot follow. He can’t give her many of the things she may over time grow to want. She’s also at a different point in life and their age difference is real and will matter. I like to think that in many ways, Maul lets her down easy. She can move on now with the help of her father.

Maul finds Rhea’s father because he wants to give her what he himself wants. He can’t get his own father back, but he can locate hers. Fathers matter. Men matter. That’s not the most popular sentiment in all quarters, but it’s true. Now, many times there are good reasons for an absent father, and I’m not here to pass judgement on single mothers. But to pretend that an absent father doesn’t have consequences is just wrong. 

I’m a pretty obscure fan fic writer, and no one reads stories like this one. People read my Reylo and that’s about it. My Reylo provokes all sorts of reactions. But one reader comment from a few months back stuck with me. It talked about how I have essentially written my own multiverse of Star Wars. I think that’s correct. I have written different scenarios of the canon timeline and different versions of the major characters. It’s sort of a mosaic of the SW universe, with common ideas, characters, and themes expressed again and again. I love Star Wars and I like to approach it seriously. 

When it comes to my fan fiction, it’s like Star Wars is one long Homeric epic poem and the main trilogy is the Illiad. But all the major characters have their own separate stories as well. So, Agamemnon comes home in the Orestia. And Odysseus has the Oddysey to finish on his way home from victory. The idea is that every character is richly drawn and that their desires, struggles, and triumphs have a logical meaning both in the context of their own lives and the larger arc of galactic history. It all has to make sense and hang together to tell the character’s individual story and also the overarching story of Star Wars. That’s what I have tried to do with my stories. 

Does that make the universe too small? In my mind, the universe of Force users is small and they absolutely overlap and influence one another. Maul is no exception. His story intersects with everyone else—from Dooku, to Sidious, to Ahsoka, to Kenobi, to Ezra Bridger. And at least in my tale, also Vader and Plagueis. Maul matters. Not in the way he wants to matter, but he matters all the same. 

Poking around in this landscape is Darth Plagueis. Plagueis is the charismatic bad guy. The Sith who doesn’t brood and never frets. He’s the chess master of a galaxy far, far away and he always has an angle. When Plagueis is done with Maul in _Rule of Two_ , he will turn to Vader (and Luke) in _Twilight of the Gods_ for some really awkward ‘I am your father/grandfather in the Force’ moments.

This was supposed to be my stuck-at-home, stressed-and-bored pandemic story. Some escapism for me and for readers. Foolishly, I thought Covid-19 would be over long before I finished writing it. But sadly, that is not the case. Still, as of two weeks ago my kids are back in school full time. My husband is back at the office about half time. There’s still no opera, but baseball is back. Long ago, I decided that if I could teach my boys to love Star Wars, opera, and baseball, my work as a parent was done. Anyhow, life is far from normal, but I am no longer stuck in a strict lockdown. Things are getting better here and I hope they continue to improve elsewhere for everyone. Thanks again for reading and best wishes to you for good health and happiness.


End file.
